


Missing Scenes From Season 6

by x_r



Series: Season 6 [2]
Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:33:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_r/pseuds/x_r
Summary: Various scenes I didn't include in the first fic I wrote.In order: Lindsay finds a job, Tony attempts to 'make it official with Sally Sitwell', Lucille adjusts to being alone, Buster receives visitors in prison, Gob & Tony take on the gay mafia, Maeby experiences an identity crisis, Lindsay & Sally get fake-drunk together, George Michael goes to Phoenix with his father.





	1. Lindsay & Sally

**Author's Note:**

> this is sort of a sequel to my first fic, just stuff that i didn't include since that one was mostly centered around michael's perspective and having 10000 flashbacks w/ other characters wouldn't have fit the narrative. i'll be updating this as it's written & if anyone has any requests for anything specific that was mentioned in my previous fic but not elaborated upon please let me know.
> 
> this first chapter is a bit of backstory on lindsay & sally since i didn't really dive into that at all. again i tried to keep it close to the tone of the show, although not quite to the extent of the first one. oh well.

Lindsay pauses at the start of the hallway and reaches into her purse for her compact mirror. She checks her reflection one last time, grimacing slightly as her eyes pass over her earrings. _What is it with government buildings and metal detectors_? she thinks to herself. Such a _humiliating_ way to discover those hoops aren’t real gold. _Probably not real diamonds either_ , she realizes, and gasps. She considers ripping them off and tossing them in the trash, but they _do_ complete the outfit. And they’re well-made fakes, too, _very_ convincing – certainly convincing enough to fool Lucille, from whom she’d stolen them, for all those years.

 

Unless Lucille had known, somehow, that Lindsay would be going through her jewelry that morning, and swapped the real thing out with an imitation. It seems possible, definitely, and it’s a very _her_ thing to do. But why go to all that effort? And when would she have had the time? Lucille had hardly noticed when Lindsay came in, too busy yelling at her husband about a box full of needles he’d apparently shown up with. _“Impotent AND a druggie? I won’t have that in this house!”_ Lindsay had overheard while rummaging through the jewelry box. _“Leave, George! I mean it this time!”_

 

 _Whatever_ , Lindsay decides. She’s come this far, and she’s not about to turn around and go home. That’s where her own husband is, and she doesn’t want to see him. It’d been so much easier to convince herself that she was meant to be with Tobias when she was far away and didn’t have to look at his face. Why is that mustache _still_ pink? Has he been re-dyeing it? It looks _awful_. At least he never tries to kiss her. She’s not sure she’d be able to handle that. _He’s family_ , she reminds herself, _you’re stuck with him_. The thought isn’t comforting, and she sighs wistfully as she closes the mirror, beginning her walk down the hall.

 

She’s been thinking about family a lot lately. Mostly about mothers and daughters, and how she doesn’t want to end up like her own. Mother, that is. Not the one who raised her, whose fake earrings she’s wearing, and not the one who gave birth to her, who died some 30-odd years ago after being pushed down a flight of stairs. And she doesn’t want her own daughter to end up like her – married to a man she only dated out of spite, letting decades of her child’s life go by unnoticed, too focused on herself.

 

It’s been a week since Lindsay came back to the family, and she’s spent much of that time trying to reconnect with the daughter she barely knows. It’s difficult, trying to figure out what’s the right amount of attention and affection – what’s too much, what’s too little. She overdid it a little at first, which Maeby wasn’t shy about letting her know. She appreciated that – her daughter had boundaries, and she wanted to respect them. It’s a major change, not having your mom in your life at all for years and then suddenly being the only thing she cares about.

 

So Lindsay, wanting to let Maeby have her space, and yearning, as she often had, for something _more_ in her life, had decided to get a job. In politics. Because she really does like being part of the problem. And she only knows one politician who’s not currently in a coma or murdered by Buster, so that’s whose office she’s headed for at the moment. Sally Sitwell’s door is open, and her voice echoes down the hall. It sounds like she’s on a phone call, and it doesn’t sound like it’s going very well.

 

“ _Yes_ , I’m serious, okay? _Listen_ to me – no, Tony, _listen_ – you _cannot_ do that shit, okay? I mean it. You can’t – well, I don’t care. It’s my fucking company. I _cannot_ have the guy I put in charge – no, shut up, I’m still talking. _Oh my god_. _Why_ do I have to explain to a _fifty year old man_ – ugh, look, that part doesn’t matter, okay? I don’t _care_ how old you are. _I don’t care if you’re not fifty_! _Jesus_! The point is, you’re a goddamn _adult_. You should know better!”

 

Lindsay is standing in the doorway now, an eyebrow raised. Sally, sensing someone’s presence, holds up a finger to indicate that she’s busy. Lindsay nods, then immediately feels stupid for doing that when Sally isn’t even looking. Well, at least she didn’t see it.

 

“You’re gonna make me say it again?” Sally yells into the phone. “You’re really gonna – _no_ , Tony, god damn it. I am _already_ regretting this. It’s been a fucking _week_. It’s been _one single_ fucking _week_. Why do I have to – look, it’s literally _so simple_. It is _inappropriate_ for you to fuck your boyfriend in – okay, _whatever_! He’s _not_ your boyfriend. I don’t _care_ what he is, okay? You can’t have sex with him in front of the fucking _security cameras_! You – _what_ – you didn’t know they were there? _Yes_ , you fucking did, _Tony_! I showed them to you!”

 

Lindsay pulls a chair out from under Sally’s desk and sits down, her interest piqued. Sally, meanwhile, is still engrossed in the phone call, too much so to notice Lindsay’s terrible attempt at acting like she’s not listening.

 

“I _did too_! Yes, I _did_! That first day! _What_ – yes, I _know_ you were _distracted_. I haven’t forgotten about the – uh, _yeah_ , I wish you hadn’t done that too! _No_ , I’m _not_ still mad about – _no_ , you fucking _idiot_ , I’m mad about something else now! _What do you think_ – uh, yeah, no shit! Uh huh – yeah – _okay_ – dry humping, _my ass_! No, Tony. You can’t call it _dry_ humping if you both jizz your pants – y _es_ , those are HD cameras; I’m gonna _kill_ my dad for that – I mean, what are you, _thirteen_? Yeah, I just called you fifty and now I’m calling you thirteen! That’s how you’re acting! Jesus _Christ_!”

 

Lindsay raises both eyebrows, too intrigued to continue pretending she’s not eavesdropping. Sally ignores her, too busy facepalming.

 

“Okay, whatever. _Whatever_! All of – _shut up and listen to me_ – all of that aside, how do you explain what I saw the other day? _What_ – oh, give it a fucking _rest_ , Tony. I’m not _stupid_. You think I didn’t notice _Gob Bluth’s long-ass legs_ sticking out from underneath your desk? _No_ , you _moron_. I know _exactly_ what was happening – yeah, _okay_ , but that’s _not_ discrete. The door was wide open. _Idiot_. Oh my _god_. You know what, Tony? I _don’t_ have time for this. Just shut up. I’ve got a meeting.”

 

Sally slams her phone down and finally acknowledges the woman sitting across from her. She doesn’t really have a meeting scheduled, but at least she has an excuse to end the call, which was clearly going nowhere. She’ll have to stop by Sitwell Construction later and yell at him in person. “What the hell do you want, Lindsay?”

 

Lindsay rolls her eyes. “Well, for starters, a little respect?”

 

Sally rolls her eyes right back. “You’ve got ten minutes. You really want to waste it exchanging pleasantries?”

 

Lindsay scoffs. “Guess not. I want a job.”

 

“Try McDonald’s. I heard they’re hiring.”

 

“Cute. I want a job _here_.”

 

Sally stares at her, mouth half-open in a condescending smile. “You can’t be serious.”

 

“Oh, I assure you, I am.”

 

“So you just decided to walk in here and ask me for one?” Sally moves a stack of folders from one side of her desk to the other, trying to appear busier than she actually is. Technically she has nothing on her agenda until a meet-and-greet at 3:30, and she wants to make sure Lindsay leaves before that becomes readily apparent.

 

Lindsay blinks. “Well, yeah.” It had seemed like a good idea when she came up with it – still did, in fact. That was how she’d gotten all of her previous jobs. Why should this one be any different?

 

“Bold move,” Sally mutters, considering her options. She could, of course, just send Lindsay away with nothing. Have security drag her out, even. That’d be the smart thing to do. Then again, she’d also thought putting Tony Wonder in charge of her family’s company would be a smart idea, and look where _that_ had gotten her. Well, no, in her defense, it hadn’t really seemed _smart_ so much as convenient. But, _granted_ , she _had_ assumed the convenient option would be the smart one, so…

 

Sally sighs. Either way, she _does_ need a new assistant. They keep quitting for some reason, some bullshit about the job being “too demanding”. _Pussies_. And she certainly knows Lindsay Bluth-Funke already, and having her former opponent as part of her team _would_ be a good way to showcase her willingness to compromise. Plus, this way, she skips the hassle of screening new applicants…

 

Sally sighs again. Apparently she’s already made up her mind. But she’s got Lindsay right in the palm of her hand right now, and the desire to toy with her a bit first is just too strong. It’s not every day you get an opportunity like this, after all. The other woman is still staring at her, awaiting a response. Sally curls her lips into a tight smile and presses her hands together.

 

“It doesn’t work like that, Lindsay. Have you ever applied for a job in your life?” Sally hasn’t, either, but Lindsay doesn’t need to know that.

 

“For your information, yes, I have. I used to work at an upscale boutique in the mall.”

 

“And how’d that turn out?”

 

Lindsay’s brief moment of hesitation is enough to give it away. Sally smirks.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

 

“That wasn’t my fault, okay? It was Gob’s fault,” Lindsay says. Sally makes a face at the name. “My brother,” Lindsay adds for clarification.

 

“I know who Gob is,” Sally responds, a particular clip of security footage from the Sitwell Construction building replaying itself inside her mind. She shakes her head.

 

Lindsay nods. “Oh yeah, you were just talking about him.”

 

“Yeah, I was, during a _private_ conversation.”

 

“Whatever. Hey, why is there glitter all over your desk?”

 

“I got glitter-bombed last week by some loser. You know how it goes with politics.” Sally decides to leave out the part where the ‘loser’ in question was the same man she just got off the phone with, and that the incident in fact had nothing to do with politics.

 

Lindsay shrugs. “Oh. Well, worse things have certainly happened to better politicians.”

 

Sally narrows her eyes and tilts her head. _This_ is how Lindsay Bluth-Funke tries to get a job offer? By _insulting_ her? Now she’s questioning her as-of-yet-unspoken decision to hire this woman. She would point that out, but doing so would require informing Lindsay that she’d all but gotten the job already, and that would put Sally at a disadvantage. So much for keeping the upper hand.

 

Lindsay continues, oblivious. “I mean, look at JFK. The guy ended slavery and they shot him in the head. All he got in return was a lousy airport. And his picture on the penny, or whatever. That’s like, the _worst_ coin.”

 

Sally frowns, perplexed. There’s so much wrong with what Lindsay just said. “Do you mean Abraham Lincoln?”

 

“I mean whichever one got shot in the head.”

 

“They both did, Lindsay.” Sally’s eyebrow twitches and she immediately reaches for it, holding it in place. _Stupid cheap-ass eyebrow glue_. The last thing she needs right now is Lindsay finding out about her alopecia. And she’s not having _nearly_ as much fun toying with her as she’d thought she would. What gives?

 

Well, for one, Lindsay seems earnest, if a little apathetic. You’d think the two would contradict each other, but Lindsay’s pulling it off pretty well. Just like those counterfeit earrings she has on. “Okay, so that proves my point then,” she says confidently. “Am I hired?”

 

Sally takes a moment to consider her life choices. Particularly the ones she’s made in recent years. She’s been doing that a lot recently, as satisfied as she is – she’s #1 on Newport Beach’s Top 50 Under 50, for fuck’s sake. It’s hard not to every time she sees that glitter. Vacuuming does nothing – it’s like it’s soaked into the wood. _Note to self_ , she thinks, _never,_ _EVER_ _date a magician_. Of course, ‘date’ is a bit of a stretch. Her relationship with Tony Wonder had been more of the friends-with-benefits/business-partners-in-crime variety. She’d worried, from time to time, that he’d wind up getting too attached – and in the end, of course, he did – just not to her. _That_ part had been a surprise.

 

She’d been a little offended, honestly, even though she’d never wanted to settle down – what did Gob Bluth have that she didn’t? Of course, the answer to that question is obvious: a penis and testicles. And Tony _was_ the man who’d insisted on rebranding himself as “ _the_ ” gay magician – which Sally had always thought was _so stupid_ ; wasn’t _every_ magician pretty much gay? Not according to Tony, though, and she had to give him _some_ credit – it _had_ worked pretty well, right up until it hadn’t.

 

That was the part that really frustrated her about the whole thing, how _insistent_ he’d always been that it was just an act. Even when he was dancing around on stage with a bunch of half-naked men, _clearly_ aroused, even when he was practically waxing poetic about ‘his life with Gob’ after they started ‘fake’ dating, and even last summer when the gay mafia cracked down on him. She’d thought for sure he would admit it _then_ , especially considering he’d already slept with Gob by that point – but _no_ , apparently Tony would rather fake his own death and move to Branson than accept that he, a man who’d been publicly out as gay for years, was anything less than 100% heterosexual.

 

And, of course, throughout the entire process, she’d had to double as his personal therapist. The realization that she actually didn’t mind doing that – that she and Tony might actually be _friends_ – is quite possibly even more unsettling than all the knowledge she now possesses about what Gob Bluth is like in bed. Apparently he doesn’t cry with Tony, like he always had with women(she couldn’t resist asking), which doesn’t surprise Sally at all. She’s always known the guy was gay – look up the dictionary definition for ‘overcompensating’ and you’ll find his picture right there on the page. And _apparently_ he has a major praise kink and likes being dominated, both of which were most definitely TMI. Sally had gotten up and left the room at that point, refusing to return until Tony promised he’d change the subject.

 

She hates that she now knows what every single Bluth brother is into – she’s never slept with Buster either, obviously, but Lucille Austero had, and Lucille Austero also had a rather unfortunate tendency to overshare. Sally hadn’t felt guilty about stealing the money after _that_ – $100k is _nothing_ compared with the things she’d had to listen to. Of course, she probably could’ve figured as much out on her own – the guy has ‘mommy issues’ written all over him. He’s also a prime example of why you never let crazy stick its dick in you. Lucille Austero herself, however, had learned that lesson a little too late. They’d pulled her body out of the wall a week ago – god only knows where it’d been between Cinco and then.

 

Sally shudders at that thought. What a _horrible_ way to go. Of course, had it not been for Buster, Lucille Austero would be the one sitting behind this desk right now, and Sally would still be her assistant, sucking up to her, kissing ass, and hoping/praying that her teeny tiny little act of thievery would continue to go unnoticed. This _is_ a major improvement over that, so she kind of has to hand it to him – oh, god, _hand_. Between Buster’s murderous robot prosthetic and that ridiculous ‘just hands’ agreement that _certain magicians_ have very visibly already broken, she’s had more than enough of that word. More than enough of the entire Bluth family, to be honest. Her father won’t admit to anything, but she strongly suspects they’re part of the reason he’s gone into hiding – the reason she had to put Tony in charge of the company in the first place.

 

Directly or indirectly, the Bluths are the cause of everything unpleasant she’s dealing with right now – the Bluths save for, oddly enough, the woman currently sitting across from her, her former grade-school rival turned former political opponent turned current potential… _ally_? Lindsay Bluth-Funke had skipped town during the election, which made it so much easier for Sally to win, and she’d also been conspicuously absent all throughout the most recent spell of Bluth-dominated headline news. Sally has no idea if Lindsay was even a part of all of that convoluted self-sabotage at the wall unveiling. Maybe, maybe not. Both seem equally likely.

 

Either way, she’s here now, and she’s looking at Sally expectantly. Sally sighs, still thinking it over. If this goes awry somehow – which it probably will – she can always just fire her. It’s a lot easier to replace an assistant than a head of a company. Especially after the huge announcement party she’d thrown, during which she named Tony Wonder as her father’s successor. It would _not_ be a great look, for _anyone_ involved, if he were to be removed from that position, barely a week later, for the cardinal sin of being _obnoxiously_ horny – with _Gob Bluth_ , of all people, who’s _supposed_ to be his _business rival_. She can’t even tell them to keep it in their pants, either, because apparently they’ve already done that, and she’s got the security camera footage to prove it.

 

Lindsay’s still staring at her. It’s been almost two full minutes since she asked the question, Sally realizes. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then sighs, then opens her mouth again. May as well just get it over with.

 

“Yeah, okay, sure. You’re hired. Whatever.”

 


	2. Sally & Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally takes another sip of her drink. “Tony almost proposed to me once. Did I ever tell you about that?”
> 
> Lindsay thinks for a second. “No, I don’t think you did.”
> 
> “Oh my god, it was a mess. He chickened out halfway through. He got down on one knee, panicked, and then pulled out a glitter bomb. I was so mad at him. I had to make my next public appearance looking like I got puked on by a Pride parade.” She pauses for a moment. “And you know the kicker? This was after we broke up. Like, months after. It was the day you guys did that stupid wall disaster thing and they found Lucille Austero’s body.”

“So that leaves us with just about an hour before I have to – _Jesus Christ_!”

 

“What the h-” Tony starts, but he sees immediately why Sally slammed on the brakes. There’s a person in front of the car. Female, probably in her seventies. Brunette. She’s wearing a red coat and sunglasses, and tapping incessantly on Sally’s window. Lucille Bluth, he realizes. He’s heard some things about her, definitely, and crossed paths with her once or twice, but this is his first time really seeing her up close and personal. She’s… certainly a sight to behold.

 

Sally rolls the window down. “Are you insane?”

 

“Are _you_?” It’s a strange question to be asked by a woman who’s just thrown herself in front of a moving vehicle, and Sally, naturally, rolls her eyes. Tony just stares. Lucille continues, unperturbed. “Leaving here without so much as a handshake? _Have we_ or have we _not_ won over your undying support for our border wall?”

 

If looks could kill, Lucille would almost certainly be dead right now. Instead, though, despite Sally’s best efforts, she’s still standing unharmed just outside of Sally’s car, arms folded and eyebrows raised. “A _verbal_ response would be very much appreciated,” she says. “I don’t have all day.”

 

“No, Lucille,” Sally replies, finally. “ _No_ , you have _not_. I don’t know what the _hell_ your family was hoping to accomplish here today with… all of this, but I _do_ know that you have _failed_ , _spectacularly_. Unless you were trying to make yourselves look bad, for whatever reason, in which case, _congratulations_. I do _not_ , nor will I _ever_ , pledge my support for this… this _debacle_!”

 

Sally had been hoping that would sound better than it did – she’s a little twitchy still from the shock of the near-collision, and she hasn’t quite regathered her wits yet. Apparently, though, it’s a good enough answer for Lucille, who turns around and walks away looking almost… satisfied? _Why_ in the _world_ would she be _satisfied_ by that? Unless this _is_ some sort of set-up. Either way, Sally wants to get out of here ASAP. There’s a ribbon-cutting in ninety minutes for a _legitimate_ business, and before that she has to show the new head of Sitwell Construction around his office.

 

“God, I should’ve just run her over,” she mumbles as she rolls up the window. Tony doesn’t reply. He’s looking back towards the stage, trying to spot Gob. Their reunion had lasted barely a minute, although _Sally_ claimed it was ten. _Ten seconds, maybe_ , he’d thought to himself. It hadn’t felt like even _that_.

 

“Tony, are you even listening to me?” Oh, right, she’s talking again.

 

“Nope,” he replies, still distracted.

 

“Great,” Sally responds sarcastically. “Okay, well, go ahead and get it out of your system now, because I’m only gonna go through this whole process once. We’re down to 45 minutes now, thanks to that little _roadblock_.”

 

She’s definitely fucking with him now. “No way in hell was that fifteen minutes,” he points out.

 

Sally hits the brakes again. This time, though, they’re at an intersection, so it makes sense. “Did you not see what happened to my fucking eyebrows?”

 

He didn’t, actually, so he turns to look at her. They’re at least an inch higher than they’re supposed to be, and they’re both tilted at ridiculous angles. She looks like she’s just seen the ghost of a failed plastic surgeon. Tony bursts out laughing.

 

“Screw this,” she mutters, peeling them off one at a time. She discards the eyebrows, then pops open the glovebox and retrieves a pair of oversized shades she keeps around for occasions like this.

 

Tony goes back to staring out the window and thinking about Gob. _Just hands_. Just hand stuff. He can totally _hand_ le that. Now he just has to work the pun into the act, the _show_ – the _show of hands_. No, that one’s a bit _heavy-handed_. That one’s trying too hard, _hands down_. Maybe he’d be better off with a more _hands-off_ approach to this quite literal _hands-on_ situation. But he doesn’t want to _overpla_ _y_ _his hand_ here. Perhaps he should just _wash his hands_ of the whole idea. _On one hand_ , he’s got way too many bad hand puns _on hand_. _On the other hand_ , that’s not the absolute worst thing to have _hand_ y.

 

Okay, no, this has definitely gotten _out of hand_ – oh, there’s another one. None of these are even remotely sexy, though, so it’s back to square one. Tony will never admit it, but there’s definitely a reason he’s focusing so heavily on the hand puns – it gives him an excuse to think about something other than what’s really on his mind. He wants to be more than just hands – be more than just _friends_ – with Gob. Of course, now that they’re rivals, they can’t even be _that_.

 

“Tony? _Hello_? Am I gonna have to drag you out of the fucking car?”

 

He looks up to see Sally Sitwell standing outside of the passenger’s side door. She’s already opened it for him, an impatient gesture rather than a polite one, although an uninformed passerby would have surely been fooled. He hadn’t even noticed when the car stopped moving, or when she got out. Or when she put her new eyebrows on. He blinks a few times in confusion. How are they at Sitwell Construction already? He’s really off his A-game right now.

 

“ _Hello_? You gonna get out, or are you just gonna sit there and whisper about hands all day?”

 

Tony immediately stands up, eyeing her with suspicion. “I said all of that out loud?”

 

Sally slams the car door behind him, then locks her car. “All of what? You whispered ‘just hands’ once and then got really quiet.”

 

“No, yeah, that’s – that’s what I meant.”

 

She gives him a strange look. “Okay.”

 

She’s headed for the building now, so he follows her. “And this is _your_ key card, so here – _take it_ , Tony. For _fuck’s sake_.”

 

“I’m taking it! _Jesus_!” He grabs the key card, if only to get her to quit poking him with it.

 

“Taking your sweet-ass time, more like,” she quips as they enter the lobby. The building is empty, save for the two of them. “What is _wrong_ with you? You know I’m on a tight schedule.”

 

“Uh, _yeah_ , you’ve only mentioned that like a million times.”

 

“If you’re gonna be a little bitch about it, then I can just leave you here, and you can figure all this shit out on your own. Is that what you want?”

 

He shrugs. He honestly doesn’t care. They both know this is more for her own benefit than his – Sally doesn’t want to be responsible for hiring the guy who knows jack shit about the work environment. She sighs, then continues. “Anyway, there’s the front desk.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right. I never would’ve guessed that,” he says, rolling his eyes. Sally smirks.

 

“So over there is the-”

 

Tony nods along absentmindedly, completely distracted. It’s a fucking _office building_ , not an _illusion_. How complicated can it possibly be? There’s no sleight of hand, no misdirection, no hidden compartments or trap doors – just rows of cubicles, conference rooms, and one suspiciously large filing cabinet. He wonders how difficult it would be to pop out of that.

 

“Did somebody say _wonder_?” he says out of habit, then immediately realizes his mistake. Sally turns around and looks at him like he’s just grown another head.

 

“What the fuck, Tony? I said that’s where we keep the blueprints.”

 

“I know,” he replies, even though he hadn’t actually heard her.

 

Her expression is a mix of annoyance and concern. That’s not a great sign. If _Sally’s_ concerned, he must be acting _really_ off. “Seriously, are you feeling okay?” she asks.

 

“Are _you_ feeling okay?” he says back. “You seem super stressed right now. You need to chill.”

 

Sally scoffs and rolls her eyes at him. There’s a chance he has a point there, but it’s _clearly_ a deflection, so she feels justified in ignoring it. “Whatever. Down that hallway is the-”

 

Again, he tunes her out. He doesn’t even particularly want this job – he’s a magician first and foremost, and Sally knows that. But that doesn’t exactly pay the bills – especially now that he can’t really do the whole ‘gay magician’ thing anymore – so he probably needs it. _Thanks for that, gay mafia_. Joke’s on them, though, because he’s in love with a man.

 

Sally is _still_ talking, for some reason. “That’s the break room. The rules are posted on the fridge. And, _Tony_ , I’d suggest you _read_ them, because there’s a very strict no-doves-in-the-freezer policy thanks to the _last_ magician who worked here.”

 

“Gob worked here?” Tony asks. It had to have been Gob, with the tone of voice she’s using.

 

“Didn’t I tell you about that? He got fired for ‘Fuck City’.”

 

“Well, that seems a bit unfair.” If Fuck City is what it sounds like, it’s not a bad idea.

 

“Yeah, no, I think you’re probably biased. Anyway, over there is where-”

 

He’s in love with a man who doesn’t love him back. This is all the gay mafia’s fault, really. He could’ve had it all, back on July 2nd, if it weren’t for that stupid cement. Gob had definitely loved him then – _hotels, and share a room_. It had taken every ounce of willpower that Tony possessed to say no to that and move forward with the plan. The stupid switch-places-with-a-mannequin-and-move-to-Branson plan. The plan that involved never seeing Gob ever again. He’d been staying in a hotel, alright, but he’d had to share it with cockroaches and several mice that he had _not_ brought in. Of course, it wasn’t like he had a choice, was it? That’s what he’d kept on telling himself, anyway.

 

“And this room is mostly just used for-”

 

The closet conversion store float at the parade was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for Tony. No, scratch that – it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for _anybody_ , he’s sure of it. And all of it had gone to waste. That wasn’t even the worst part, either – the worst part was that they’d made _Gob_ get rid of the mannequin, and they’d let him think it was Tony’s body. Tony wasn’t used to having _feelings_ for other people, _feelings_ on someone else’s behalf, but that certainly made him feel _something_ , and it wasn’t anything good. He’s _just_ self-aware enough to realize that taking on the entire gay mafia singlehandedly probably isn’t the smartest idea, though, so he has yet to come up with the perfect revenge plan.

 

“- and there’s also security cameras at every exit, one in the conference room, one behind the front desk-”

 

And Gob had still been in love with him when he’d made that phone call – at least, it had seemed that way. He was pretty sure Gob had cried a little when he first heard Tony’s voice again, an undeniable confirmation that Tony was still alive(Gob vehemently denied this, but Tony wasn’t convinced). So what had changed between then and the wall unveiling? That hadn’t even been two weeks ago, but now Gob was talking about going back to Joni Beard. Tony, not to be outdone, had quickly added that line about making it official with Sally Sitwell – Sally Sitwell, the woman who had dumped him months earlier, for more reasons than one(“you’re _clearly_ in love with someone else” and “the _one time_ we tried to hook up since Cinco you called me ‘ _Gobie_ ’” were definitely on the list).

 

“And _this_ , Tony, is a remote control. You use this to turn on the TV,” Sally says, speaking painfully slowly. Somehow they’re back in the lobby now. There’s that stupid front desk again. Does the building loop around, or did they retrace their steps? Maybe he _should’ve_ been paying attention. Instead, though, he’s glaring at Sally.

 

“I know what a goddamn remote control is. _Jesus_.”

 

“Just making sure you were listening. Oh, _what_ in the _hell_?”

 

It’s then that Tony realizes she actually did turn on the TV. She’s staring at it now, mouth hanging open. The news is on, and there’s a big red banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen. “MISSING WOMAN’S BODY FOUND – INSIDE BLUTH FAMILY’S BORDER WALL,” it reads.

 

“ _The fuck_?” he asks dumbly. Sally turns up the volume.

 

“That’s right, John,” Joni Beard says, flashing her pearly whites. Her enthusiastic disposition hardly fits the somber tone of the announcement. “Lucille Austero, beloved Newport Beach socialite and politician, is officially no longer a missing person. Her body was discovered this afternoon inside a border wall prototype built by – ironically enough – the Austero-Bluth company. Miss Austero is believed to have been killed following this year’s annual Cinco de Cuatro celebration back in May. Up until today, however, her whereabouts remained unknown.”

 

“ _Inside the wall_ ,” Sally murmurs, deep in thought. She whirls around. “Tony, did you know about this? This was _your_ stupid magic trick.”

 

Tony scoffs. “Okay, first of all, it wasn’t _mine_. It was Gob’s. And it wasn’t _stupid_ , and it wasn’t a _trick_. It was an-”

 

“ _Illusion_ , whatever. Did you know about this?” She’s reaching into her purse now – for what, Tony doesn’t know.

 

He shakes his head, equally confused. “Gob couldn’t have killed her. He was with me that night. We were-”

 

Sally shushes him before he can remind her of what he and Gob were doing that night, then withdraws her hand from her purse, leaving the pepper spray – Tony had nothing to do with this, she decides. He’s too stupid to pull off something like that. _Buster Bluth was involved with the magic show too_ , she remembers. It must’ve been him.

 

Back on the TV screen, Joni Beard’s continuing report confirms Sally’s suspicions. “This shocking news comes just weeks after the announcement of Byron ‘Buster’ Bluth’s mistrial, where he was effectively _acquitted_ of the murder he has now _confessed_ to. Buster himself has seemingly vanished – however, in our quest for answers, we _were_ able to speak to _one_ member of the Bluth family.”

 

“Gob?” Tony asks hopefully, and Sally briefly considers pepper-spraying him just for that. His hopes are dashed instantly, though, as the image on the screen changes to that of a short, snub-nosed, bespectacled bald man. “Tobias Funke,” the caption reads, “Sex Offender/’Actor’/Brother-In-Law.”

 

“ _Damn it_ ,” Tony whispers. Sally, satisfied, decides not to pepper-spray him.

 

On screen, Tobias chuckles. “My thoughts on the wall situation, you ask? Well, in the words of every ER doctor who’s had the pleasure of spreading a man’s cheeks, ‘Oh my! _That_ should _not_ be in there!’ Now, do I get paid for this? That’s me asking that, by the way, not the doctor. Well, I mean, I _am_ a doctor, so – but not _that_ kind. Not the _fun_ kind, mind you! Well-”

 

The broadcast cuts him off mid-sentence, returning to the table where Joni and John are seated. Apparently it’s John’s turn to talk now. “Again, viewers, if you happen to see this man,” he says, as Buster’s mugshot fills the screen, “or possess any information regarding his whereabouts, please dial the number below and you’ll be connected to the studio. The police _also_ have a tip line set up, so please dial them as well.”

 

“Okay,” Sally says, shutting off the TV. She takes a deep breath, allowing herself a few seconds to process this new information, then files it away in the back of her mind. She’ll deal with this later, when the calls start coming in. Right now, she needs to focus on getting this office tour over with so she can make it to the ribbon-cutting. She’s always been exceptionally talented at compartmentalizing.

 

She turns around to face Tony. “So, that’s the office. Any questions?”

 

“Yeah, just one,” he says. If Gob can go back to that woman on TV just now, then _he_ can go back to Sally. He starts to get down on one knee.

 

“What the _hell_?” Sally asks. _Surely_ this fucking idiot isn’t about to do what it _looks_ like he’s about to do.

 

Tony reaches into his pocket. “Will you-”

 

That’s when every single alarm bell inside his head starts going off simultaneously and he finds himself unable to finish the sentence. He’s never been one to outright panic – much like Sally, he’s an expert at compartmentalization; it’s one way he’s not _same_ with Gob, who tends to wear his every emotion on his sleeve without even realizing it – but there’s a first time for everything, and, as reality comes crashing down around Tony, it’s looking more and more like this particular first time might be happening right now. He doesn’t have a ring in his pocket – he has his phone, his wallet, his keys, a Canadian penny he found at the airport, two candy wrappers, a bottle of nail polish, and a glitter bomb. It’s this last item that his fingers close around, and, without even thinking, he’s already pulled it out and set it off.

 

He makes eye contact with Sally in the brief millisecond before it explodes, and the look of shock, astonishment, and betrayal on her face is more than enough to tell him what he already knows: that he’s just made _a huge mistake_. There’s a popping sound, and then confetti rains down, enveloping the both of them in a cloud of iridescence. It’s all over the place – holographic flakes of every size, shape, and color, sequins both small and large, a seemingly impossible amount of fine shimmering powder – and, if looks could kill, Tony realizes, there’s no way he would have survived this little stunt.

 

“What the _fuck_?” Sally demands, furious, as Tony meekly stutters out an, “I’m sorry.”

 

This happens several times over, until eventually they’re just staring at each other wordlessly – Sally’s still standing, while Tony, who slipped and fell on his ass when the glitter bomb went off, is seated on the floor.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says again, in a quiet voice. He feels completely _exposed_ – like Sally’s just seen him naked, except _not_ like that, because that’s happened tons of times and it’s no big deal. It’s like she’s just seen his _soul_ naked. “I should not have done that.”

 

“ _You think_?” Sally asks. Her meticulously put-together outfit, _painstakingly_ chosen, which had previously been a simple black and white, is now host to every color of the rainbow and then some. There’s glitter all in her eyebrows, and her eyelashes, and her hair. It’s raining off of her in sheets every time she moves. “I mean, _Jesus_ motherfucking _Christ_ , Tony. What the _fuck_ was that about?”

 

“I – well-”

 

“Seriously. Enlighten me.” There’s only one thing Sally can think of worse than being proposed to by your ex, and it’s precisely what just happened.

 

“It’s – okay, _listen_ , it made sense in my head, I _swear_. Gob said-”

 

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Sally interrupts, realization beginning to dawn on her face. “This is about _Gob_? You fake-proposed to me with a goddamn _glitter bomb_ because of _Gob_?”

 

“ _Yes_ , okay? Go ahead, laugh it up.”

 

Sally throws her hands in the air. “I’m not _laughing_ , Tony! I’m covered in _glitter_. I’ve got a ribbon cutting in _fifteen minutes_. I have to leave _here_ in _five_. I _don’t_ have time to change my outfit, and I _definitely_ don’t have time to stand here and watch you beat around the bush about why you ruined it. You’d better explain yourself, and it’d better be good.”

 

True, she isn’t laughing. She no longer looks like she wants to kill him, either, although she’s definitely still mad. He takes a deep breath, and then starts talking, sounding almost nothing like his usual confident self.

 

“Well, we said _just hands_. You know, because we can’t be _friends_ , because we’re rivals now. That’d be _weird_ , if we just kept seeing each other. So the _hands_ thing, you know, it _won’t_ be weird, because we’ll be seeing each other for hand stuff. You know, like-” he mimes a hand job, and Sally facepalms.

 

“I know what _hand stuff_ is, Tony.”

 

There’s an awkward pause then that lasts several seconds. Eventually, Tony continues.

 

“Well, anyway, he also said he’s gonna get back together with his ex girlfriend, Joni Beard, and I was like, well, _I_ might make it official with Sally Sitwell, so, uh, you know, just trying to, uh, keep a promise here…” Tony trails off, hoping that’s enough of an explanation. The embarrassment is really starting to sink in – now that he’s said it all out loud, it sounds somehow even dumber than he’d feared.

 

Sally, meanwhile, has not stopped facepalming. “Okay, Tony, first of all,” she says through her fingers, “literally _nobody in the universe_ gives a shit if two business rivals spend time together.”

 

He hadn’t considered that. “Wait, really?”

 

Sally’s hand leaves her face and she stares down at him. “Yes, _really_.” Is he _serious_? “My dad and George Bluth used to hang out all the fucking time,” she continues. “Nobody cared. They went golfing together like every weekend.”

 

“Huh,” Tony says.

 

“They _didn’t_ jerk each other off, though, before you get any _ideas_.” What she _really_ wants to know is why Tony thinks jerking each other off is _less_ weird than just being friends with each other. There’s no way in hell he’ll be able to explain that within the next three minutes, though, so she doesn’t ask.

 

“That you know of,” Tony points out, and Sally rolls her eyes.

 

“Secondly,” she continues, ignoring that comment, “what’s that fucking word that you two are always saying all the time?”

 

“Same,” Tony says.

 

Sally sits down in a nearby chair, then scoots it over. If she’s gonna have to play therapist again, she at least wants to do it comfortably. “ _Exactly_. And why’d you tell Gob that you might marry me?”

 

“Because he said he was getting back together with-”

 

Sally shakes her head. “No, _no_ , no. I _mean_ why you felt the need to _lie_ about it.”

 

“To…” he starts. _To hide my feelings_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say that. “What do you want from me?” he says instead. He’s mostly regained his senses now, and his first instinct is to go on the defensive.

 

“I want you to use your fucking _brain_ for five fucking seconds. _Why_ do you think Gob said he was getting back together with Joni Beard? You’re _same_ , remember?” Sally can’t help but roll her eyes again. It’s like talking to a two-year-old, or a brick wall. Or a brick wall made of two-year-olds.

 

“Because he… _oh_.” Tony’s eyes widen. It all makes sense now.

 

“ _Yeah_.” She’s not entirely sure he gets it, even _now_ , so she decides to elaborate. “Gob Bluth is _not_ getting back together with that woman. He just said that to impress you. Because you’re a couple of emotionally constipated, self-absorbed, _completely delusional_ morons who lack the emotional bandwidth to properly navigate your feelings for each other, so instead you wrap it all up in like fifteen layers of ‘no homo’ bullshit and toss it back and forth all day like a ticking time bomb, _far_ past the point where any two normal people would just _admit you’re in love with each other already_!”

 

“We’re _not_ a couple,” Tony says adamantly.

 

Sally stares at him, dumbstruck. “ _That’s_ what you got from that?”

 

“Wait, you think he’s still in love with me?”

 

“Oh my _god_ , Tony. I _don’t_ have time for this.” There’s not enough time for this in a day, or even a week, or even a month, or even a year, or even a decade, or even a century, or even a millennium. Sally, meanwhile, has just under sixty seconds. “I’m leaving,” she announces, standing up and heading for the door. “Cleaning bill for all this glitter is coming out of _your_ paycheck, by the way.”

 

 _That’s fair_ , he thinks. “Was that a yes or a no on my last question?” he yells after her.

 

“Figure your shit out, Tony,” she yells back. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

 

He realizes just _slightly_ too late that she was his ride. He stands up, dusts as much glitter off of himself as he can manage, then gets an Uber back to his apartment, where he vacuums the rest of the glitter out of his hair. It’s not the most enjoyable sensation, sure, but he’s learned from experience that it _i_ _s_ a fairly efficient method. He laughs to himself as he realizes that _Sally_ doesn’t even have that option. She’ll probably have to get her wig dry-cleaned, or something. Is that how wigs work? He has no idea, and he thanks his lucky stars for that. After re-applying his hair gel, he spends several minutes staring at the ceiling, then several more staring at his phone. _Fuck it_ , he decides. At least if Sally’s wrong he can rub it in her face. He picks up the phone and calls the person he wants to see.

 

Gob answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

 

“Hey, Gobie!”

 

“Tony!” Gob’s voice had sounded a little flat when he first spoke, like he was upset about something, but now it’s anything but.

 

“Yeah, it’s me,” Tony says, leaning back. Gob must not have checked the caller ID, Tony realizes, and he can’t help but chuckle. It’s cute how excited Gob sounds. Maybe Sally’s actually _right_. “You doing anything right now?”


	3. Lucille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently each chapter of this i write keeps getting longer, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. i didn't have an actual like overarching plot in mind when i first started, but it's all starting to come together in my head now, so i can say with some confidence that this fic will probably end up being approximately the same length as the first one. i might also eventually write an actual sequel since this is really more of a prequel/companion piece.
> 
> but anyway, this chapter is about lucille. featuring blunder, because apparently i can't write anything without including that. so yeah.

Lucille Bluth – and not for the first time – has found herself completely alone. Two weeks ago, her youngest son confessed to murdering her arch-frenemy – and after _all_ the _trouble_ she’d gone to to prove his innocence, too! Granted, she hadn’t ever _fully_ believed he was innocent, not even for a _second_ , but _still_ – there was no need for him to just come right out and _say_ it! Of course, what was _worse_ were the words he’d said immediately after – “ _But doesn’t she just remind you of Mom_?”

 

The sheer _audacity_ of that statement was sickening. Comparing _his own mother_ to this freakshow of a dead woman(who the _hell_ smiles like that after being _killed_?) – she had definitely made some mistake along the way with this one.

 

The other three, meanwhile, are hardly any better. Michael’s taken off for Phoenix once again, after _insisting_ that Buster be returned to prison. Two weeks have gone by since she’s heard from him. The daughter she adopted is apparently too taken with her own daughter for any half-sisterly bonding. She’s also taken Lucille’s earrings, and she has yet to return them. At least, Lucille _assumes_ Lindsay is responsible for the missing jewelry – it could just as well have been her husband, that anus tart. It seems like the sort of thing he’d get up to when he’s not chauffeuring Lucille back and forth between the penthouse and the beach cottage.

 

And Gob – _Gob_ is a last resort, and she’s not _that_ desperate for someone to talk to. Besides, _he_ hasn’t called _her_ either – it would seem these days that being a homosexual suddenly makes you too good to speak to your mother. It’s not like she cares, though. She’d known _that one_ was a lost cause from the day he was born.

 

It’s not her fault, she decides, that all her children are failures. You can’t make good wine from bad grapes. There’s nothing she could have possibly done when they were rotten from the start. George’s sperm is the issue here, she suspects. She’s _certainly_ done the world a favor with those estrogen pills. And now he’s on heroin, or so it appears. Buying needles in bulk from some guy on a street corner – what _else_ could that mean? He hadn’t outright denied it, either, though he refused to confirm.

 

“I just need to _feel_ something, Lucille,” he’d whined, his face somehow even _uglier_ than usual. “You’ve taken away my manhood, my _dignity_ – what choice do I have?”

 

“Try bungee jumping,” she’d replied, just before she slammed the door on him. “I hear there’s even more of a rush when you do it without a cord.”

 

That had been a week ago, and she hasn’t been fully sober since. She’s trying to reacquire her former tolerance – rehab had _really_ done a number on it, and it was just plain _embarrassing_. She’s been alternating between the penthouse and the cottage, just in case George shows up at either one. She’s planning to change the locks on both, just to be safe. So far, though, there’s no sign of him.

 

She’s given up on the divorce, for the most part – _heroin_ , at _his age_? He’ll be dead soon enough. What’s the point in sitting through all the legal proceedings while she waits for the inevitable? Besides, she’s spent enough of her precious time in courtrooms as it is – and, thanks to Buster, that won’t be ending anytime soon. His new trial is supposed to take place sometime next year – until then, the DA(Lottie Dottie, that _bitch_ ) says, he remains in prison.

 

“Well, we _could_ go visit him,” Tobias says. _Damn it_ – at least part of that thought process must have been out loud.

 

“I’m not paying you to talk to me,” Lucille responds. He laughs at that – _god_ , that laugh is _annoying_.

 

“You’re not paying me at all, Mother Bluth,” he says. “This is a labor of love.”

 

Lucille rolls her eyes, although it’s hard to tell behind the sunglasses. _How many times_ must she tell him not to call her that? “Speaking of _love_ , what have you done with that wife of yours?”

 

“Oh, did you not hear?” Tobias asks. “Lindsay works for Sally Sitwell now.”

 

Lucille frowns. They don’t need _Sally_ for anything anymore; the wall ordeal is over and done with. “Why? What’s she getting at?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“What’s her end goal?” Lucille specifies. “Is this another one of those useless _causes_? I thought she gave up on those.”

 

“No, I think she just wanted a job.”

 

Lucille’s first instinct is to burst out laughing – _Lindsay_ , a _job_? What’s next, _Gob_ in a _monogamous_ _long-term_ _relationship_? Instead, though, she studies Tobias’s face. _He_ certainly seems to believe the words he just spoke – then again, the man would probably believe anything. He’s quite possibly the dumbest person she knows, and she’s the matriarch of a family full of morons. This one, though, is a special breed of stupid – she could probably hit him square in the face and he wouldn’t even notice.

 

She ponders doing so, just to test out the theory, then decides against it. They’re on the highway currently, and she’s not in the mood to crash a car – even one that has “ANUSTART” written on the license plate.

 

“ _Interesting_ ,” she mutters.

 

Tobias shrugs – did he _really_ need to take _both_ hands off the wheel for that? – and Lucille resumes staring out the window. They’ll be at the beach cottage within five minutes, and then he’ll be on his way, and she’ll be _completely alone_ once again. Dusty never comes around anymore, and it’s not like she wants him to, either – she has more than enough clingy sons already, _thank you very much_.

 

Or at least, she _should_ be completely alone. When they arrive at the house, however, just as the sun disappears behind the ocean, it’s clear something’s off. The lights, for one, are on, and there’s an _unknown vehicle_ in Lucille’s usual parking spot.

 

“The _hell_?” she says to no one in particular.

 

“Beats me,” answers Tobias, who seems to have assumed that she was speaking to him. Instead of correcting him, though, she allows him to follow her up the stairs as she cautiously approaches – it’s never a bad idea to bring a human shield into these sorts of situations.

 

The door is unlocked(she really ought to call that locksmith), and she shoves Tobias inside first, just in case there’s someone waiting behind it with a crowbar or a baseball bat or god-knows-what else. When no immediate harm befalls him, she steps across the doorframe herself, closing the door behind them as silently as possible.

 

Tobias begins to open his mouth, and Lucille immediately shushes him. He nods, miming zipping his lips shut and tossing the key. Lucille rolls her eyes – why the _hell_ would there be a _key_? – then, satisfied that he won’t be making any noise, opens her own mouth.

 

“Who’s in here? Show yourself!” she shouts at the top of her lungs, causing Tobias to fall down in surprise. He hits his head, and goes silent. “George, if that’s you, I swear to _god_ -”

 

There’s a crash somewhere else in the house, and Lucille surges forward. “ _George Oscar Bluth_ , if you’ve just broken my good china, you’d best be prepared to clean it up with your-”

 

She cuts herself off mid-threat as she reaches the kitchen. The man standing before her is, in fact, named George Oscar Bluth – but he’s not the George Oscar Bluth she was expecting.

 

“M-mom?” he stammers, staggering backwards until he hits the counter. She’s clearly scared him half to death – his hands are trembling, his eyes are wide, and the contents of the tray he’d been holding are strewn across the floor. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of silk boxers and an unbuttoned shirt, and Lucille eyes him with suspicion.

 

“Gob,” she replies, her eyes still narrowed. It’s neither a question nor a statement, more of an accusation.

 

“I-I thought you were at the penthouse,” he stutters, trying to regain his composure. He looks down at the floor instead of directly at her face, trying to calm his nerves – even so, he’s shaking like a leaf. His mother rolls her eyes.

 

“Why are you here?” Lucille asks. It’s obvious at this point that George Sr isn’t involved with _whatever_ this is – if he _were_ here, his son wouldn’t be in a state of partial undress and preparing a tray of whipped cream, cherries, and body chocolate. At least, she certainly _hopes_ not. Still, this is almost equally unwelcome. She raises her eyebrows, awaiting his answer.

 

“I – I -”

 

Lucille rolls her eyes again as her oldest son devolves into a stammering mess. Could he _be_ any more incoherent? Just then, however, she hears footsteps headed down the stairs, and a voice – decidedly male – calls out, “Gob? Everything okay down there?”

 

Lucille spins around immediately as the owner of the voice comes into view. “That’s _my_ bathrobe!” she laments.

 

Tony Wonder looks down at himself, then glances her over. “I like it better on me,” he says, with a confidence that both infuriates and impresses Lucille.

 

“Keep it, then,” she retorts. “You’ve already stretched it out anyway.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes, then looks over at Gob. “You okay, Gobie?” he asks again. Gob nods, avoiding his mother’s gaze. He’s no longer afraid, just embarrassed. Tony nods back, then extends his hand to Lucille.

 

“Tony Wonder,” he says. Lucille doesn’t accept the handshake.

 

“Has that been _inside_ my son?” she inquires, eyeing Tony’s hand with distrust.

 

Gob steps forward then, before Tony can answer. “ _Okay_ , Mom,” he says, “should the guy – _should_ – should the guy’s _mom_ be asking that type of question? _Should_ -”

 

“Point taken,” Lucille replies, cutting him off. “I don’t want to know.”

 

There’s silence then, almost unbearably awkward, as Lucille glances back and forth between her son and the man her son is clearly _involved_ with. Gob is looking down at the ground once again, red-faced and ashamed(out of every family member who could’ve potentially walked in on him just now, it had to be _this one_?), and she revels in his discomfort. Tony Wonder, however, is looking her directly in the eye, his arms folded, as if daring her to say something else, and she cannot believe the _nerve_ of this man – to show up in _her_ house, wearing _her_ bathrobe, and not even have the _decency_ to apologize for it. There must be a mighty large set of balls underneath that robe, she decides. Perhaps she’s finally found herself a worthy opponent – Sally Sitwell never did take her up on that offer to get coffee.

 

“Okay, gang, how long was I out?” Tobias asks, sitting up. _Great_ , Lucille thinks, _so he_ is _still alive_. Gob, however, is the only one who turns to look at him – Lucille and Tony are still too engaged in their staring contest.

 

“Hey, Tobias,” Gob says, having now noticed him for the first time. Somehow, having the most awkward person in the family there is making the current situation _less_ awkward, and, for once, Gob is glad to see his brother-in-law.

 

“And hello to you as well, Gob!” Tobias replies. “And hello L- hang on, _Lucille 2_? I thought you were _dead_! I-I saw your _body_! Ghost! _Ghost_!” He launches himself upright in a panic, crashing into the wall, and a painting falls down from the impact. It hits a table, knocking over several decorative candles.

 

“Oh, for the love of-” Lucille cries out, breaking eye contact with Tony to glare at Tobias. Tony also turns around, and Tobias, seeing the goatee, realizes his mistake.

 

“False alarm!” he shouts to Lucille, as he attempts to reposition the candles. “I thought – well, with the women’s robe, you see – and the hair – an _honest_ mistake. Could’ve happened to _anyone_. I see _very clearly_ now that you’re a man, though, sir. Tony Wonder, is it?”

 

Lucille rolls her eyes as the candles topple over once again, and Tony nods in affirmation.

 

“Ah, yes, of course,” says Tobias. For a moment he seems to have just accepted this at face value, but then his expression changes to one of confusion. “Wait, why is _Tony Wonder_ in our beach cottage?”

 

“Yes, _Gob_ ,” Lucille says, turning back to look at her son, “why _is_ Tony Wonder in _my_ beach cottage?”

 

“Because we didn’t think anyone would be here!” Gob insists, waving his hands around. His mother is still staring, so he continues. “He’s – we’re together. Not – not _together_ together. Just – he’s with me. Not ‘with me’ like _with me_ – with me like, you know, we’re both _here_. At the same time. Because I invited him. Because we’re in a relationship. Not a _relationship_ relationship, I mean, just – just _hands_. Just _friends_ , I mean. Except, _not_ friends, because we’re rivals. It’s a _rivals_ relationship. With some hands. And some other stuff too! _I_ – I mean, it’s not _just_ hands – no, _no_ , it _is_ just hands! It’s _just hands_. Just a casual friends/hands/rivals relationship. With a lot – I mean _a lot_ – of white-hot-”

 

“Semen?” Lucille asks, interrupting him with a dramatic eyeroll. This is the gayest thing she’s heard in weeks, and she’s been spending upwards of ten minutes a day with the anus tart.

 

Gob’s eyes go wide. “ _What_? No, Mom, _no_ – should – _should_ -”

 

“ _Hate_ ,” Tony helpfully interjects, “white-hot hate. That’s what you were gonna say, right, Gobie?”

 

“Same!” Gob shouts. “I mean, _yes_. White-hot hate. Well, you know, not _hate_ hate-”

 

Tony scoffs. “Well, yeah, of course not _hate_ hate-”

 

“Yeah, _obviously_ , right? Just like, you know-”

 

“Like, the sort of _strong feeling_ that hate is-”

 

“Yeah, just like, that really strong sort of _emotion_ -”

 

“Yeah, like, _same_ , right?” Tony asks.

 

“ _Same_ ,” Gob replies.

 

“Same?”

 

“ _Same_!” they both yell, high-fiving.

 

“Good _grief_ ,” Lucille exclaims, rolling her eyes yet again. She _really_ needs a drink.

 

“Ah, male-on-male _friendship_ ,” Tobias says fondly, “such a _beautiful_ thing.”

 

Gob and Tony, suddenly aware of both how close together they’re standing _and_ how closely they’re being watched, take a step back from each other, averting their eyes.

 

“You can go now, Tobias,” Lucille says. “Your services are no longer required.”

 

“As you wish, _madame_ ,” he responds, curtsying before he ducks out the door.

 

A minute or so later, the sound of a car starting up can be heard, and Tobias drives away into the night. Internally, Gob begins to panic – without Tobias around, there’s nothing and no one standing between himself and Lucille’s blatant homophobia. She hasn’t said anything _too_ awful yet, especially given what he was obviously in the middle of doing when she walked in, but he knows it’s only a matter of time.

 

Lucille sighs and makes her way over to the bar, where she pours herself a drink. She brings it with her to the armchair and sits down. Neither Gob nor Tony has spoken for several minutes, and Gob breaks the silence by clearing his throat.

 

“We should probably-”

 

“Yeah, I mean, if _she’s_ here,” Tony adds, gesturing at Gob’s mother. The two of them make their way towards the front door, neither mentioning the fact that their clothes are still upstairs. They’ll come back for them later, or maybe just get new ones.

 

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Lucille calls out, stopping them in their tracks.

 

“Probably his place,” Gob says. Tony nods in agreement.

 

Lucille shakes her head. “No, Gob. I won’t have that. Stay and have a drink with your poor mother, won’t you? It’s the _least_ you could do.”

 

“I-” Gob starts, looking to Tony for help. The words _please don’t leave me_ _here_ _alone with her_ are practically etched into his face. Tony reaches for his hand, squeezing it tightly, as though promising he won’t.

 

“Your ‘friend’ can stay too,” Lucille says, observing this interaction, and that settles it. Both men, somewhat hesitantly, seat themselves on the couch furthest from her, leaving enough space in between them for several people to comfortably sit.

 

“I’m just gonna-” Gob says, standing up and gesturing toward the bar. “Do you want a-”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Tony says. “I’ll have-”

 

“Same.”

 

Lucille cranes her neck, trying to get a good view of what they’re drinking, since _apparently_ these two have the ability to communicate without actually saying what it is they want. Her best guess is some sort of vodka martini, incredibly similar to the one she’s currently downing. Gob sits back down on the couch, noticeably closer than before to the other man, and hands one drink to Tony while keeping the other for himself.

 

“You haven’t been at work recently,” Lucille says to her son.

 

“Was I supposed to… still be doing that?” he asks, rather stupidly.

 

“It’s your _job_ , you _halfwit_. What do you _think_?” She pauses to sip her martini. “We’ve had to bring that _dweeb_ your brother fired back on board, to pick up _your_ slack.”

 

“You mean Adhir?”

 

“I don’t remember what his name was. Something like that.”

 

“Well, I’ve been doing something better,” Gob says. “Something that’ll help us out a lot more in the long run, if you know what I mean.”

 

His mother remains unimpressed. “And what might that be?”

 

“Sucking information out of our rivals. You’re _welcome_.”

 

“If that’s what they’re calling it these days,” Lucille mutters under her breath. “Sucking… _information_.”

 

Gob shrugs, uncomfortable with the small talk. He scoots a little closer to Tony, who’s been polishing off his martini instead of speaking.

 

“ _So_ ,” Lucille says eventually, breaking several minutes of silence that follow several more drinks, “how long have you two been…” She makes a crude motion with her hands that Gob suspects is supposed to represent anal sex.

 

“We’re not _together_ , Mom,” Gob insists. He and Tony have both somehow found their way to the middle of the couch, where they’re cuddled up in each other’s arms. “We’re just – it’s just-”

 

“I believe you,” Lucille replies. She _absolutely_ does not, but she gets the sense that if she doesn’t concede then he’ll never shut up, and she’s not particularly in the mood to hear it.

 

“Okay, good, because we’re _not_ ,” he repeats, and then Tony kisses him on the mouth and he kisses back. Lucille rolls her eyes.

 

“So when did this start?” she asks for the second time.

 

“A while ago,” Gob answers.

 

He doesn’t feel the need to be any more specific than that – he’s not _entirely_ sure when it started himself. It had been April when he and Tony confessed to having feelings for each other, but looking back through his memory – the blurry bits and pieces of it that he hasn’t managed to erase, anyway – he has a sneaking suspicion that there had been something there even long before that. Certain _thoughts_ he had had, certain _actions_ that he would _never_ admit to in front of his mother – and when he’d finally gotten to know Tony last spring, it was almost like they’d already known each other their entire lives. Like they were two missing pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly together.

 

“ _Same_ ,” Tony whispers, kissing him on the cheek, and Gob blushes as he realizes he must have said all of that out loud.

 

Lucille, meanwhile, has furrowed her brow, internally connecting several seemingly random events. “So all of that _nonsense_ back at the parade…” she starts, trailing off. Gob just stares at her, as does Tony. “And when you were bragging about dating _someone famous_ … it wasn’t that woman Michael was after; it was…” she gestures at the man seated next to her son.

 

“We’re _not_ dating, Mom,” Gob says quickly. In response, Tony kisses him on the mouth again, and once more he kisses back, moaning softly. Lucille rolls her eyes for the trillionth time.

 

“You’ve mentioned that,” she says. She studies the two men, who have now separated their lips and are studying her in return. The three of them sit in awkward silence for several more minutes, until finally Gob stands up – what goes in must come out, and he’s had to pee since before they started drinking. He also wants an excuse to get away from his mother, even if only for the time it takes to empty his bladder.

 

“Be right back,” he announces, starting towards the bathroom. Lucille watches him leave, then takes another sip of her drink.

 

“That’s it?” Tony asks her, as soon as the door shuts. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

 

He and Gob _are_ dating – they’d agreed on it, in private, the morning after the wall unveiling fiasco. They’d also agreed that it should be a secret – PDA, however, was perfectly acceptable, they’d decided, as long as they denied it when questioned. Kind of like how it’s _not_ gay if you say no homo first. Of course, _this_ was pretty much _undeniably_ gay at this point – they’d both accepted that fact. It’s way too much of a hassle remembering to say no homo _every single time_ you want to kiss your boyfriend, and then _again_ if kissing leads to something more. There’s a part of Tony that wonders(did somebody say?) how much longer they’ll be able to keep this up before people start talking. He kind of wants the whole world to know(particularly the gay mafia, so he can rub it in their faces) – but if this arrangement is good enough for Gob, it’s good enough for him. Lucille Bluth, however, can _clearly_ see right through it, and he almost wishes she would say _something_ , just so he can prove his point.

 

She shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ve always known my son had… _homosexual inclinations_ ,” she says, choosing her words carefully, hoping to press Tony’s buttons without being _too_ deliberate.

 

“But you’re… not gonna… _say_ anything about it?”

 

If this were any _normal_ parent, her lack of outright hatefulness would surely be appreciated. Lucille Bluth, however, is no normal parent, and in her case, the absence of input is rather unsettling – Gob feels like he’s walking on eggshells every time he’s around her, just waiting for the moment when she’ll finally go in for the kill. He’s said as much to Tony, more than once. He’s said a lot of things to Tony, actually – he’s so excited to have someone who wants to listen to him talk that he doesn’t quite know when to stop. Tony doesn’t mind – after all, Gob’s just as eager to listen to him. _Same_ , so _same_.

 

“ _Should_ I?” Lucille asks, snapping Tony out of his reverie. “What is there to say?”

 

Tony hadn’t thought that far ahead when he brought it up, so he doesn’t reply. Lucille smirks.

 

“ _Exactly_ ,” she says, stirring what little is left of her drink. “It’s much more _fun_ this way, anyhow. I like to watch him squirm.”

 

“So do I,” Tony says back, pausing for dramatic effect, “…when we’re in bed together.”

 

Lucille bursts out laughing. Tony frowns – he’d thought _for_ _sure_ that would make her uncomfortable. Apparently, though, he’s misjudged this woman – either that, or there was something wrong with his delivery. It’d sounded snide enough to _him_ , and certainly not at all _laughable_ , but he _was_ 3 ½ vodka martinis deep into tomorrow morning’s hangover when he said it, and alcohol had never done his self-possession any favors.

 

“Okay, lady, _Jesus_ ,” he says, a little self-conscious. “It wasn’t _that_ funny.”

 

Lucille manages to stop guffawing. “You know, you’re not half-bad,” she says, as she lifts herself up and heads back over to the bar for another drink. “It’s a shame my son will end up driving you away sooner or later, like he has with all the rest.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes at that. “You mean with all the _women_?”

 

“Mark my words, it’ll happen,” Lucille says smugly. “Always has, always will. Just don’t come crying to _me_ when it does. He’s _unlovable_ , that one. I’ve tried; it’s not possible.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes again, shaking his head, and Lucille nods all the way back to her chair. He wants to argue with her, but he isn’t sure what to say(and his _last_ attempt at a comeback hadn’t exactly gone over as planned), so instead he sits there in silence. Just then, Gob returns to the living room, blissfully unaware of the conversation that just transpired.

 

“Hey,” he says, resuming his prior position.

 

“Hey,” Tony replies.

 

He pulls Gob in for another kiss – partly because they’re in love(Lucille’s wrong, it _is_ possible; Tony would know), partly because Lucille is still watching like a hawk, and partly because he’s now experienced firsthand what Gob has been dealing with his entire life and he’s full of emotion. It’s an _interesting_ combination, to say the least, and what started as just a simple kiss is quickly evolving into a very heated makeout session. Clothes are starting to come off, and – especially considering how little the two men were wearing to begin with – Lucille decides it’s best if she leaves the room. Her son and his ‘ _friend_ ’ seem to have forgotten she was even there in the first place.

 

An alarming thought occurs to her a few minutes later, as she’s chain-smoking on the back porch – what if they really _ha_ _d_ forgotten she was there? She suspects that short one hadn’t forgotten – why _else_ would he seduce her son right there on the couch, if not to spite her? _There’s no chance in hell that they’re_ actually _in love_ , she reasons – if Gob’s own mother couldn’t love him, how on earth can some strange little man with spiky hair and a hot pink goatee? That beard is almost as hideous as the anus tart’s mustache. She decides she’ll point that out to him the next time they cross paths – strangely enough, she gets the feeling that she’ll be seeing a lot more of him in the future(although _hopefully_ not as much as she nearly saw tonight; he didn’t seem to be wearing anything underneath that robe).

 

Her own son, though – _her own son_ had forgotten she was there. _Doesn’t matter_ , she tries to convince herself. _It’s just Gob_. _Who needs him_? It’s not like she doesn’t have two more, plus an adopted daughter/half-sister. But Michael and Lindsay _still_ haven’t been in touch with her, and Buster’s off in jail. Maybe she _should_ visit him. Lucille Austero is dead, Dusty turned out to be completely worthless, and she’s kicked her husband to the curb. She has no one, she realizes, _no one_ , and she holds her hand up in front of her face just to make sure it’s still there. She can practically feel herself fading away into obscurity – if she screamed into the night right now, would _any_ _one_ even hear her?

 

She decides to test it out, just to see. She throws her head back and lets out a bloodcurdling howl of anguish, high-pitched and shrill, and she doesn’t let up until she sees the lights in several neighboring houses come on. Satisfied, she takes another drag of her cigarette. Lucille Bluth will _not_ be forgotten.

 

She hears the sound of a door opening behind her, and then Gob’s voice calls out, “Mom? What’s wrong?”

 

“Oh, _nothing_ ,” she replies, her own voice slightly hoarse, basking in the look of terror on his face. So he _does_ care about her, after all. She’s still in control. Everything is as it should be. She can’t help but notice that he’s now the one wearing her bathrobe, though, and she rolls her eyes, then waves him away. “I’m _fine_. Go back inside.”


	4. Buster, Oscar, & George

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuing the trend of increasingly wordy chapters... this one's like 5.7k and the next one will most likely be way longer than that. i THINK there will be 8 chapters total but i might change my mind so who knows.
> 
> anyway, this contains spoilers for the end of my first fic. if you're reading this then you've probably already read that one but i thought i'd mention it just to be safe. i'm not entirely satisfied with how this chapter turned out but i really wanted to get started on the next one so i'm posting it anyway. george sr & oscar are like the only bluths who are NOT fun to write & i think that's because i hate jeffrey tambor but w/e. also i have literally no idea how to write buster(that's why he was barely in the first one) so i apologize if he seems out of character.

“Bluth, you’ve got a visitor.”

 

At first, Buster doesn’t even look up. He _heard_ the guard, sure, but something didn’t completely register. He’s used to being referred to as ‘Bluth’, obviously, and he’s used to hearing the words “you’ve got a visitor”, but he’s not used to both occurring in the same sentence. It’s only happened once before, and he’s been here for a month now. Even when it clicks, his first assumption is that the guard is speaking to someone else – it’s not that far-fetched, after all, that another member of his family would wind up behind bars.

 

“Bluth! _Visitor_!”

 

“Me?” Buster asks, gesturing to himself.

 

“Yes, _you_ ,” the guard responds. “And wash your… er, _hand_ first.”

 

Buster looks back down at his finger painting. It’s an artistic rendition of himself and his mother as John-John and Jackie O, hand in hand, just like at Motherboy back in the day – although it isn’t _quite_ finished yet; he hasn’t had time to paint his left arm. Several other prisoners groan; of course the _one guy_ who actually _enjoys_ mandatory arts and crafts is the one who gets to leave.

 

“No groaning!” the guard snaps, pointing out the sign on the wall.

 

“I’ll finish _you_ later,” Buster whispers, giggling, to his canvas as he stands up. The guard makes a face that he chooses to ignore.

 

“So who’s here to see me?” he asks the guard, as he makes his way over to the sink. The water here only comes in one temperature, and it’s freezing cold. Buster tries not to linger too long as he rinses the paint from his hand and his stump(even after all these years, it’s so easy to forget about that thing – especially now that they won’t let him have a new prosthetic; some _nonsensical_ policy about ‘no murder weapons allowed in jail’, whatever _that’s_ supposed to mean). “Is it Michael? Did he _finally_ come back for me?”

 

The guard shakes his head. “It isn’t Michael.”

 

Buster dries his hand and stump on a paper-thin paper towel( _oh_ , _well that makes sense_ , he realizes), then guesses again. “Gob?”

 

He doubts his magician brother would come visit him in prison, unless it was for some sort of escape stunt, but for a brief second he allows himself to get his hopes up. The guard, however, shakes his head a second time. “Nope. It’s actually-”

 

“Wait, don’t tell me!” Buster insists, bouncing up and down as they enter the hallway. He’s loving this – it’s like guess the fur all over again. “Is it Lindsay?”

 

“No,” the guard replies, shaking his head for the third time, both because it isn’t Lindsay and because he doesn’t understand how this man can be so _excited_ about something so _menial_ – not even that he _has_ a visitor, but that he gets to _guess_ who the visitor is. Then again, there’s a lot of things about Buster Bluth that are difficult to comprehend.

 

“George Michael?”

 

The guard looks confused. The first three names were obviously those of Buster’s siblings; he recognizes them from various unflattering news articles that have appeared over the years – but this one is _completely_ out of left field. “The singer?”

 

Buster rolls his eyes, giggling. “No, silly. My _nephew_.”

 

“No, it’s, uh, not your nephew.” _So many Georges and Michaels in this family_ , the guard thinks.

 

Buster racks his brain. “Is it Maeby?”

 

That confused look is back. “Maybe who?”

 

Buster rolls his eyes again. “My _niece_ , silly. That’s her _name_. I think she might actually be my cousin, though.”

 

The guard decides he’s not gonna touch that. “Not her either.”

 

“Wha – then who is it?” Buster asks, a little disconcerted. They’re almost to the visitation area now, and he’s running out of guesses. He can’t remember how his _last_ visit went, for some reason, but he does remember how he’d gotten the distinct impression that _those two_ wouldn’t be returning. Which only leaves – but it _couldn’t_ be-

 

“Look, man, I’m just the messenger,” the guard replies. “Don’t shoot me.” He opens the door to a private room and ushers Buster inside.

 

“ _Mother_ ,” Buster breathes, observing the woman seated at the small metal table as the guard shuts the door behind him. She’s currently exhaling a haze of cigarette smoke, an interesting juxtaposition with the large sign mounted behind her that clearly reads ‘NO SMOKING’.

 

“ _Buster_ ,” Lucille says in return as he sits down opposite her. She takes another drag, then blows it out in his face. Buster coughs, but refuses to break eye contact; prison has taught him a thing or two about intimidation tactics. Another minute passes before either one of them speaks again, and Buster spends the entirety of it gazing directly into her eyes.

 

-

 

“Bluth, you’ve got visitors.”

 

Buster looked around his cell curiously, observing his cellmates – he was definitely the only Bluth present.

 

“Me?” he asked, just to confirm. It had been almost a week since Michael had turned him back in, and in that almost-week he’d heard _nothing_ from the family, not a _peep_. Could Michael _finally_ have come back?

 

“Your name Bluth?” the guard asked back, barely concealing an eyeroll.

 

Buster nodded.

 

“Then _yeah_ , you. Come on.”

 

Buster stood up and followed the guard down the hallway, internally composing the conversation he’d have with Michael – _sorry,_ _Michael,_ _but you’ve wasted your time._ _You’re too late;_ _I’m a prison man now. You can’t drag me away if you try_. Except it would sound a lot more put-together than that, definitely.

 

When they reached the private visitation room, however, Michael was nowhere to be found. Instead there were two old men seated at the small metal table, both clad in dark sunglasses and showy headgear. The one on the left wore a sombrero, and the one on the right a cowboy hat. There was something _familiar_ about the pair, but Buster couldn’t quite place it until the man on the left spoke.

 

“Oh, my beautiful son!” he exclaimed, reaching for Buster with both arms outstretched. “How are they treating you? Not too bad, I hope?”

 

The man on the right frowned and punched him in the shoulder. “What the _hell_ are you doing?” he hissed. “You’re gonna blow our cover!”

 

The warning came a little too late; it’d been a dead giveaway from the moment the sombrero-wearer had opened his mouth. “Father-uncle? Uncle-father?” Buster asked, sitting down.

 

“See, look what you’ve done,” the man in the cowboy hat – George Bluth, Sr – muttered to his companion. “Uh, no, you’re mistaken,” he said out loud to Buster. “I’m just a fan. The name’s Herman. Herman Oldman.”

 

“Oh, uh, and I’m his brother, Hermano,” said the other man – Oscar Bluth – tipping his sombrero. “Hermano Oldmano. Nice to meet you.”

 

Buster frowned, but said nothing. He wanted to know what this was about before passing any judgment.

 

George facepalmed and turned to his twin. “No, _what the hell_ , they’re brothers. They’d have the same last name,” he huffed through his teeth.

 

“You’re the one who told me to ‘just put an O at the end’,” Oscar spat back.

 

George glared, although the reflective lenses made it near-impossible to tell. “Of the _first name_ _only_ , you hash-brained _ass_.”

 

“Well, _you_ didn’t make that clear. _So_ sorry,” Oscar retorted sarcastically.

 

George looked around the room, then back at his brother. “Is that what you wrote on the sign-in sheet? We need to keep our stories straight here. No _loose ends_ , remember?”

 

“You put your hands on my son, it’ll be the _last_ thing you _ever_ do!” Oscar shouted, standing up.

 

George stood up as well, and slapped him across the face. “Are you _trying_ to draw attention?”

 

Oscar slapped back, and both men, having completely lost sight of what they were doing, prepared for an all-out brawl – Oscar was mad that George considered his son a loose end, and George was mad that he’d allowed his brother to drag him out to the prison in the first place. Each was of the opinion that this whole encounter was shaping up to be a major waste of time, and they were fully prepared to pummel the living shit out of each other right there in the confined space of their assigned visitation room. Buster, however, brought them back to reality.

 

“Father-uncle, uncle-father, there’s no need to _fight_. I can keep your little _secret_ ,” he giggled, motioning for them to sit back down.

 

George and Oscar looked at him, then at each other. Both men re-seated themselves, and Buster continued smiling.

 

“I _told_ you the boy could be _trusted_ ,” Oscar muttered to his twin.

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” George muttered back. The two brothers then slowly turned back to Buster, teeth clenched into forced smiles. Buster nodded, encouraging them to continue.

 

“So, uh, anyway, the two of us,” George said after an awkward few moments, motioning to Oscar, “me, Herman, and my brother, Hermano, we’ve got a few questions we’d like you to answer.”

 

“Okay,” Buster responded. He still had absolutely no idea what to expect from this, but he wanted to remain optimistic. He balanced his chin in his hand and his stump.

 

“Seeing as you seem to be the _criminal mastermind_ in the family – not _our_ family, obviously, but _somebody’s_ family, I’m sure,” George continued. “We, uh, read about your case on the, uh, in the newspaper, and we thought you might be able to _assist_ us with something. Some, um, _matters of great importance_.”

 

“Oh,” Buster said, hurt slightly that his father and uncle were in fact only there to ask him a favor, and somewhat moreso by the fact that they refused to even acknowledge their relation to him. However, he tried his best to hide it. “Well, I hate to be a disappointment, but I was _pretty_ out of it the night I killed her, so if you wanna know any _specifics_ , I don’t think I’m really the right guy to-”

 

“No, no, son – I mean, _friend_ ,” Oscar said, reaching a hand toward Buster. “This is _unrelated_.”

 

“Yeah, like you and us,” George added, prompting a frown from the younger man. “Anyway,” he continued, undeterred, “we know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows these two _other_ guys, who are looking to fake their deaths. They’re brothers. Twins, in fact. So, they asked the guy that they know, who knows the guy that _we_ know, how he would do that, and _he_ asked the guy who knows us, and then _that guy_ asked us. So now we’re asking you.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait. Uncle-father, father-uncle,” Buster asked, confused, “you want to _fake_ your _deaths_?”

 

“I’m not your father,” George replied.

 

“And I’m not your uncle,” Oscar said at almost the same time.

 

“And _we_ don’t,” George added. “These two guys, that know this guy, that knows this guy, that we know, do.”

 

“Um, okay,” Buster said, unconvinced by their half-assed charade. He hadn’t been able to follow that whole guy-who-knows-a-guy thing whatsoever. All he’d gotten from the conversation so far was that his father and his uncle may or may not be planning to fake their own deaths, and that, for some reason, they were seeking his help with that. He wasn’t sure what was up with the flimsy aliases, either, but he decided he should probably just play along with it.

 

“So how would you do it?” George asked again, crossing his arms.

 

Buster leaned back in his seat, considering the question. He was by no means a criminal mastermind, but he _did_ like being sought after for advice instead of aggravated manslaughter for once. He’d seen enough crime documentaries and murder mystery dramas(Lucille had been through a phase – several phases, in fact) to have a few ideas, though, and he was, as always, eager to please.

 

“Well, for starters,” he said eventually, “it depends on how you want to fake-die. Obviously, there won’t be an actual _body_ left behind, so it has to be something _nontraditional_.”

 

“Like a fire?” Oscar asked, leaning forward.

 

“ _Yes_ , like a _fire_! Great example,” Buster replied, beaming brightly. In another life, he would have been excellent with children. “So, for a fire, the goal would be to get the remains too charred to identify – like that one time _Mother_ tried to cook, am I right?”

 

Neither man accepted his high-five, so he took his hand away. “Well, okay, in all _likelihood_ , that won’t happen. Because, you know, people see a _fire_ and they call _911_. Like when _Mother_ had too much vodka before she blew out her birthday candles that one year. Or that _other_ year.”

 

He paused for a moment, trying to remember exactly how many times that had happened, then shook his head. “But, the _point_ is, the firefighters will show up, and then they’ll put out the fire, and _then_ Mother will complain that they ruined her _celebration_. Or, I guess, in _this_ case, they’ll just retrieve anything that looks like human remains, and _no one_ will complain because _Mother_ won’t be there.”

 

“Right,” George said, and Oscar nodded.

 

“So, of course, they’re gonna wanna identify the body. Dental records, DNA, et cetera, et cetera. _You_ know how it goes,” he giggled. “Sometimes, if you’re _lucky_ , the DNA test won’t work – just like Mother’s _birth control_ when Gob was born!”

 

George facepalmed at that, which Buster chose to ignore. “So then it’s up to the teeth. So, _technically_ , you could kill a guy who’s the same height and weight and age, and file his teeth to match yours, but that’s _pretty_ risky. Like Mother’s _haircut_ from 1989. I _mean_ , woof _woof_!”

 

Oscar nodded, as did George. “Not her best look,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

 

“And then you’d have to deal with that whole problem of like, how did the fire start in the first place, why was the victim there anyway, are there signs of smoke inhalation or was he dead before the fire started, in which case it’s _clearly_ a murder, yadda yadda yadda...”

 

He trailed off, then looked up. “Yeah, I wouldn’t do fire. Too much left up to fate.”

 

“I didn’t ask what you _wouldn’t_ do,” George said, impatient. Buster blinked.

 

“Give the boy a chance. He’s working up to something,” said Oscar.

 

Buster nodded, encouraged by the fatherly support. “How comfortable are you with losing a limb?” he asked the pair, waving his stump around for a visual.

 

“Out of the question,” George quickly replied.

 

Buster nodded again. “Well, I guess that takes _explosions_ out of the equation. Really anything that leaves little bits and pieces behind. I was _gonna_ say you could chop off some fingers, maybe get rid of a leg. Knock a few teeth out, really _rough_ yourselves up.”

 

He giggled. “Kind of like _Mother_ when she-”

 

“Buster, shut up about your mom,” George interrupted. He’d heard more than enough about that woman. Those fucking estrogen pills – he was ready to get the hell away from her and never come back. He’d figured out how to reverse it(testosterone supplements, easy enough), but he still had to pretend to be all meek and mellow around Lucille so she wouldn’t get suspicious.

 

Buster’s smile disappeared, but he obliged. “Well, you could do ‘eaten by an animal’. That’s always a _fun_ one. Shred your clothes, get a little blood, maybe even a little _viscera_ if you’re feeling _adventurous_.” He paused long enough to giggle. “Of course, you’d have to be _careful_ about it. If it was, like, an animal that could easily be tracked down, then they could check the stomach contents, and then you’d just be a _missing person_. It’d have to be something that there’s a lot of, and with a large natural habitat range. Like a _seal_.”

 

George rolled his eyes at the intense look on Buster’s face. What the hell was it with this kid and seals?

 

“Or a shark,” Oscar suggested.

 

Buster nodded. “Shark’s even better. It could be a _shark_ that _ate_ a seal.”

 

“That won’t work,” George said, shaking his head at all the seal talk. “These guys, they want to be _dead_ dead. Not _missing presumed_ dead. It’s an insurance thing…”

 

There was an ominous pause then, and Buster and Oscar both stared at him. “…or so we’ve been led to believe,” he finished.

 

“Ooh, I _gotcha_ ,” Buster replied, winking. “Well, you won’t chop off a leg, you won’t pull out your teeth, you won’t kill a homeless person. You’ve only got one option. _Blood_.”

 

“I _do_ have blood,” said Oscar, smiling and nodding. “See, Ge – _Herman_? He’s _very_ smart.”

 

“You withdraw just a _little_ bit, say, a few times a week,” Buster continued, “and you store it in a fridge. Once you’ve got, like, a _gallon_ of it, you know, more blood than _anybody_ could ever lose and still survive, you get it all over everything, make it look like an _attack_. Break a few windows, stage a break-in. Break the glass from the _outside_ , not the _inside_ – _Mother_ made _that_ mistake. Then make it look like a body was dragged out. The _cops_ will think it was a robbery gone wrong, where you surprised the guy and then put up a fight, and then after he killed you he disposed of your corpse. Cops are _stupid_ ,” he giggled.

 

“Right,” George responded, thinking it over. “We – _they_ don’t have a whole exact ‘permanent living situation’, if you catch my drift, but I think they could make that work. Wouldn’t you agree, Hermano?”

 

“Definitely,” Oscar replied, nodding again. “I know a guy who sells needles.”

 

“ _Needles_ ,” George repeated, deep in thought. “I like it.”

 

The three men stared at each other for nearly a minute, then Buster spoke up. “Cool,” he said, nodding. He was beginning to feel a little uneasy about this whole chain of events, and there was something distinctly predatory about the way his father and uncle were looking at him.

 

George turned to Oscar. “Now give him the-”

 

Oscar made a face. “Oh, come _on_ , is that _really_ necessary?”

 

“No loose ends!”

 

“The boy won’t say anything!” Oscar insisted.

 

George slammed his fists on the table. “ _No loose ends_!”

 

Buster stood up, eyes wide. “What’s happening right now?”

 

“Take this, Buster,” George said, standing up and thrusting a pill in his direction. It was what his loser son called a forget-me-now, and what anyone with any _brains_ called a roofie. The _one_ good idea that moron ever had, and he couldn’t even use them right. You’re supposed to give it to the _woman_ , not _yourself_ , and _before_ , not _after_. He supposed it made sense, though, since his son had turned out to be such a flaming _fa_ -

 

“What is it?” Buster asked, interrupting George’s thoughts.

 

“It’s, uh, a marshmallow,” he ad-libbed. “We smuggled it in just for you.”

 

Buster frowned. “I don’t want a marshmallow.”

 

George rolled his eyes. “It’s a graham cracker, then. _Eat it_!”

 

“Calm _down_ , George!” Oscar yelled, standing up as well and reaching for his brother.

 

“It’s _Herman_ , Oscar!” George shouted, slapping Oscar’s hand away.

 

“You mean _Hermano_!” Oscar shouted back.

 

Buster, meanwhile, gazed frantically back and forth between the two brothers, terrified.

 

“Eat the pill, Buster!” George yelled, jumping over the table.

 

“ _Pill_? You said it was a _graham cracker_ ,” Buster whimpered, backing away.

 

“Yes, yes, that’s what I meant. Eat it. Eat it _now_.” He took several steps closer to Buster, who was retreating into a corner.

 

“It’s for your own good, my beloved son,” Oscar said in a whisper, joining George.

 

Buster stepped back again, hitting the wall. He opened his mouth to scream as his father and his uncle closed in on him, and George took advantage of that opportunity to toss the pill down his throat. Instinctively, Buster swallowed it.

 

“Wha – what did you _do_?” he cried out, stunned, as his vision began to fade.

 

“ _Shh_ , my son,” Oscar whispered, gently lowering Buster to the ground. “ _Shh_. When you wake up, all of this will be forgotten. You will not see me again, but I will remain with you always.”

 

“Oh, shit. Guard. _Guard_!” George yelled, pointing at the window. They’d bribed the guards to leave them alone for a half-hour, but it seemed that the obvious sounds of a struggle emanating from the room were more compelling than a measly fifty bucks. “Plan B, quick! _Plan B_!”

 

“What the _hell_ is going on in here?” a guard demanded, forcing the door open. George and Oscar exchanged glances, then shoved their way past him and took off for the exit, both shrieking like maniacs. It was the last thing that Buster heard before he blacked out completely.

 

-

 

“I see they’re keeping you _well-fed_ ,” Lucille says finally, through another cloud of smoke.

 

Buster rolls his eyes. “Well at least they’re _feeding_ me, _Mother_!”

 

The two observe each other, heads tilted and eyes narrowed, for several moments before Lucille speaks again.

 

“I’m sure you must be very lonely,” she says condescendingly. “Not a soul in this world gives a damn about you. No one’s come to visit you yet, have they?”

 

Buster can’t resist an opportunity to gloat. “For your information, _Mother_ , my _father_ came to see me three weeks ago.”

 

“Oscar or George?”

 

“Both of them, Mother.” He raises his eyebrows for emphasis.

 

She snuffs out her cigarette on the table. “My, my. Well, aren’t you _special_? What did they say to you? Singing your praises, I’m sure.”

 

His face falls. “I…I don’t remember, actually.”

 

“That bad, huh?”

 

Buster rolls his eyes. “No, _Mother_ , I _genuinely_ can’t remember. I woke up in the infirmary the next day. They said I passed out.”

 

“Huh. Well, your father probably drugged you.” She speaks the words casually, but internally she’s _livid_ – how _dare_ he do such a thing without consulting her first?

 

“Whatever,” Buster replies, shrugging it off. That was three weeks ago; it’s far too late to do anything about it now. “At least he _came_ to visit me, unlike _some people_.”

 

“Don’t you give me that!” Lucille eyes her son with disdain. “I’m here _now_ , am I not?”

 

“Yes, Mother, I suppose you are,” Buster says, looking down at the table in contemplation. He gives it another moment before looking back up at her and continuing. “So why _are_ you here?”

 

“I’ve worked something out with the warden,” she answers, reaching for another cigarette.

 

“You’re getting me out? But I don’t want to leave.”

 

“Hold your horses,” Lucille replies, pulling out her lighter. “I’m _not_ getting you out.”

 

“But you said-”

 

“I know what I said. We’ve come up with an… arrangement, of sorts.”

 

Buster leans forward. “An _arrangement_? What kind of arrangement?”

 

“You’ll see in a moment,” Lucille replies. She takes a drag off the new cigarette, then exhales in his face. “In the meantime, you’re being _awfully_ rude. Aren’t you going to at _least_ ask me how I’ve been?”

 

“ _I_ could say the same thing to _you_ ,” he says, leaning back again and trying not to cough.

 

“Yes, you _could_ , but it would be irrelevant, because I don’t _particularly_ care to know.” She pulls a flask from her purse and takes a sip.

 

Buster stares at her for several seconds, then shakes his head. He may as well just give in and do what she wants, he decides. All his defiance has earned him so far is smoke to the face. “How have you been, Mother?”

 

“Oh, Buster, it’s been _dreadful_ ,” she sighs, capping her flask, then launches into a full-on rant. “George has left me – well, I’ve kicked him out, but _still_. He’s gone, and for good this time. He’s an addict now, or so it appears. Heroin. He showed up with needles! _Needles_ , Buster! A whole box full.”

 

“ _Needles_ ,” Buster mumbles to himself. Something’s clawing at the edge of his memory, but he can’t quite manage to drag it into focus. He gives up on trying and returns his eyes to Lucille, who’s still talking.

 

“Lindsay’s got a _job_ now, an _actual_ job. Full-time. Can you believe it? She works for _Sally Sitwell_ , of all people. You didn’t hear it from _me_ , but _that one_ seems to have inherited a thing or two from that _hairless freak_ father of hers. Heard it from an inside source; your brother’s boyfriend. He used to date her.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait, _what_?” Buster asks, befuddled. Her reference to Sally’s alopecia flies right over his head. “Michael has a _boyfriend_?”

 

“No, you _fool_. Not _Michael_. No one’s heard from _him_ in a month. I meant Gob.” She inhales from the cigarette again.

 

“Oh yeah, that makes _way_ more sense,” Buster says, nodding. “It’s Tony Wonder, isn’t it? The magician?”

 

Lucille observes him suspiciously as she blows out more smoke. “Yes, as a matter of fact. How’d you know?”

 

“Oh, _Mother_. I was there when they _met_!” he giggles. “You think _I_ can’t recognize love at first sight?”

 

“I _do_ think that, in fact.”

 

Buster’s expression changes, but only briefly. “Oh. Well, either way, it’s _pretty_ obvious. I mean, the way they _look_ at each other… it’s like, get a _room_ already, you two!”

 

“They have,” Lucille says bluntly. “In fact, they’ve gotten _yours_.”

 

Buster makes a face.

 

“Mine too,” she adds, as if that’s any consolation. “Those two have _zer_ _o_ discretion and even less self-control. In fact, I even walked in on them once in my _kitchen_. That ‘Tony Wonder’, or _whatever_ his _real_ name is, had his _mouth_ on your brother’s-”

 

“ _Okay_ , Mother,” Buster interrupts, holding up his hand. “I _think_ I’ve heard enough.”

 

“Well, _I_ had to _see_ it,” Lucille counters. “You know, the man is so _short_ , I’m surprised he even had to get down on his knees for that. Then again, there’s _a lot_ I don’t get about that _lifestyle_. I mean, you’d _think_ the _shorter_ man would be the one to take it up the rear, would you not? But, from what I’ve gathered, it seems your _brother_ is the one who…”

 

“ _Okay_ ,” Buster says again, hoping she’ll change the subject.

 

“They didn’t even _notice_ me,” she continues, sighing, as though sensing Buster’s wishes and purposely doing the opposite. “When I walked in on them in the kitchen, I mean. Your brother had his eyes closed. I just turned right around and left. Had to get out of there as soon as I could; I didn’t want to stick around long enough to see what your brother’s face would look like when he-”

 

“ _Mother_!” Buster screams, attempting to plug his ears.

 

“Fine, _fine_. I’ll stop. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you witness it yourself. I’m just trying to give you a sense of what you’re in for.”

 

Buster tilts his head quizzically. “I thought you said you _weren’t_ getting me out.”

 

“I _did_ say that, and I’m _not_.” She takes another drag from her cigarette.

 

“Then what-” Buster tries to ask as she exhales.

 

Just then, the door opens, and Buster turns around in time to see Tobias make his way through the doorway. There’s an iPad tucked underneath one of his arms, and he’s lugging with him a strange object that appears to consist of a second iPad, a broomstick, a Roomba, and an almost obscene amount of duct tape. He’s also sweating profusely, and he wipes his forehead with one hand.

 

“Hey, gang!” he trumpets. “Sorry I’m late.”

 

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” Lucille asks, rolling her eyes at his unkempt appearance.

 

“Well, I hit a bump in the parking lot and found myself in a bit of a _sticky_ situation. _Completely_ lost it. The whole thing just blew apart. Fortunately, I had some spare duct tape in the trunk, so I was able to, shall we say, _tidy things up_ nice and neat. Hey, Buster.”

 

“Hey, brother-in-law,” Buster says, distracted, still observing the strange device next to Tobias.

 

Lucille rolls her eyes again. “Get a load of what the anus tart dragged in,” she says to Buster.

 

“What is it?” he asks.

 

“Oh, only the greatest creation known to man,” Tobias replies smugly, resting one hand on the back of the second iPad. He unintentionally puts his weight into it, and the whole thing falls over, as does he. Buster yelps.

 

“I’m okay!” Tobias shouts from the floor.

 

“No one cares about _you_ ,” Lucille says. “Are the screens alright?”

 

“Yes, they’re fine,” he replies a moment later, after checking them. “Not a blemish in sight! Unlike my record, which – _yikes_.”

 

Lucille breathes a sigh of relief, ignoring the second half of his answer. “Thank _god_.”

 

Tobias sets the first iPad down on the table and returns to his feet, dusting himself off. He then bends over again, takes hold of the broomstick, and sets the whole thing upright. Satisfied, he steps back, admiring his handiwork.

 

“Aren’t you going to tell him what it is?” Lucille asks, impatient with the theatrics.

 

“Calm your cutoffs, Mother Bluth; I’m getting to that,” he replies. “So, Buster,” he continues, gazing intently at the man in question, “your mother has been going through a period of-”

 

“ _No_ ,” Lucille interrupts.

 

Tobias tries again. “Your mother is lo-”

 

“ _No_ ,” Lucille interrupts again, more forcefully this time.

 

“Ah, I see,” says Tobias. “So we’re skipping straight ahead to the boring part. Can do. Buster, are you familiar with the machine known as a Roomba?”

 

Buster nods.

 

“Of _course_ he is!” Lucille loudly interjects, rolling her eyes. “He was in a _relationship_ with one, for crying out loud!”

 

“Don’t speak ill of the dead, _Mother_!” Buster snaps, punching the table and then wincing. “Lucille Austero was _not_ a Roomba! She was a human woman! And I would _hardly_ call what we had a ‘ _relationship_ ’, so-”

 

Lucille facepalms. “Oh, for the love of – she wouldn’t even _be_ dead if _you_ hadn’t _killed_ her!”

 

“A _very_ good point, indeed,” Tobias observes. He tries to lean on the iPad-broomstick-Roomba again, and stumbles, but fortunately realizes his mistake in time to prevent it from tipping over.

 

“And _anyhow_ , I meant the _actual_ Roomba that I caught you in bed with,” Lucille adds, facepalming again.

 

“Oh, right. Well, _t_ _echnically_ , the Roomba was _under_ the bed, but I guess _that_ part doesn’t matter to _you_ ,” Buster says. “Does it, _Mother_?”

 

“Continue, Tobias,” says Lucille, ignoring him.

 

“And I assume you’re familiar with broomsticks?” Tobias asks, standing up straighter.

 

Buster nods again.

 

“Excellent! And _this_ newfangled contraption up on top here is known as an iPad, which-”

 

“Um, I know what an iPad is,” Buster interrupts.

 

Lucille facepalms. “He knows what an iPad is, Tobias! For god’s sake! Get to the point already!”

 

“Right, right,” Tobias says. “Well, as you can see, we’ve got two of these here, one of which is on top of the broomstick-Roomba – the _Broomba_! Ohoho, that is _too good_. Too good! Tobias Funke, you are a _genius_!”

 

“On what Earth?” Lucille asks. Tobias begins to open his mouth, and she quickly adds, “Rhetorical, don’t answer it.”

 

Tobias nods, then clasps his hands together. “Well, anyway-”

 

“Nope,” Lucille interrupts, sick of his antics. “You’ve had your chance. You’re taking far too long. Buster, it’s your new way of communicating with the outside world while you’re stuck here behind bars. Simple as that.”

 

Buster frowns. He could’ve guessed as much himself, although he admittedly didn’t. “How does it work?”

 

Tobias opens his mouth to answer, and Lucille glares at him. “Same as any iPad,” she says to her son. “We’ve had these ones modified, though, to only connect to each other. Show him, Tobias.”

 

“Your wish is my command,” Tobias replies, turning on the two iPads.

 

“ _Could’ve fooled me_ ,” Lucille mutters to herself.

 

Tobias, meanwhile, has handed Buster the iPad from the table. “This one’s yours,” he says. “And that one-” he gestures to the iPad mounted on the broomstick, which is now displaying Buster’s face in real time, courtesy of the other iPad’s camera “-comes with us. Quite ingenious, really, if I do say so myself. You can control the Roomba base via a mobile application, which we have downloaded on this device. It’s almost like you’re really there! Go ahead, give her a try!”

 

“Okay,” says Buster. He spins the Roomba around, gasping and giggling with childlike fascination. Tobias chooses that moment to stretch and yawn – an unfortunate decision, as Buster has chosen the exact same moment to send the Roomba in Tobias’s direction. Caught off guard and off balance by the broomstick that rams against his core, he loses his footing and goes down hard.

 

“Oof!” he shouts, hitting the ground with a loud thump. The exclamation is followed up a moment later with an, “I’m okay!”

 

“Sorry, brother-in-law,” Buster says, giggling. Lucille facepalms.

 

“Oh, none taken,” Tobias says, brushing himself off as he climbs up from the floor.

 

Lucille stands up. “Well, clearly he’s got the hang of it,” she says curtly to Tobias. “Let’s get out of this hellhole.”

 

“Not even a ‘goodbye, Buster’ first?” Buster whines. This is just like her – show up unannounced after a month of _nothing_ , say her piece, and then take off again without so much as a farewell.

 

“Are you _mad_?” Lucille asks in bewilderment. “You’re coming with us.”

 

“Oh, right,” Buster says, glancing at the iPad-broomstick-Roomba as he remembers. “Duh!” He playfully punches himself in the face, and his mother rolls her eyes.

 

“Let’s go, Tobias,” she says again.

 

Tobias looks at Buster. “Race you down the hall!” he exclaims, then dashes out the door, Buster’s newly acquired communication device hot on his heels.

 

“This is _fun_!” Buster announces, pleasantly surprised by this turn of events. “Thank you, Mother!”

 

Lucille rolls her eyes again and turns to leave. She won’t give him the satisfaction of a response, she’s decided. Buster, in return, refuses to give her the satisfaction of not being satisfied by her lack of a response.

 

“No running!” a guard shouts from the hall, cornering Tobias, who slows his pace. A second guard approaches Buster and escorts him back to his cell, where he spends the next several hours alternating between playing with his new toy and arguing with his mother. He could get used to this, he decides. He could _totally_ get used to this. He does wish his mother hadn’t told him what she’d done to get the warden to allow it, though; that had been even worse than all the stuff about Gob and his boyfriend. Overall, however, Buster is quite satisfied with this development.

 

It’s not until after Lucille goes to bed that he realizes he never did get to finish that finger painting.


	5. Tony & Gob

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL i wasn't kidding when i said this chapter would be much longer than the last one... 12.6k and it's all just blunder. the remaining 3 chapters will NOT be this long, but since I'm already at 30k words i think it's safe to say that this fic will in fact be longer than my first one. which was not my intention, but oh well.
> 
> anyway, this contains borderline smut at one point, so be warned. it's nothing TOO explicit, but probably not the type of thing you'd want to be caught reading. so uh yeah.

The first thought that occurs to Gob, when he wakes up in Tony Wonder’s bed for the first time, is that he’s never slept this well before in his life. He doesn’t stop to consider how that’s possible, how he could be forty… _something_ years old and never once have gotten a good night’s sleep. Had he taken the time to do so, he would have realized it made sense – so many nights he’d slept on couches, on yachts, in the back of his limousine, next to women he half-tried to convince himself he was attracted to, or sometimes not at all; always places where he wasn’t wanted, always with the knowledge that he could be kicked out at any moment, always counting down the seconds until the whole thing blew up in his face like an ill-prepared illusion. _This_ , however, is different. This feels _right_. Even to Gob, who tries to avoid thinking at all costs, this feels right. He _knows_ this is right, because he doesn’t _have_ to think about it.

 

The second thought that occurs to him is that he’s _alone_ in Tony Wonder’s bed, and all of a sudden he’s _thinking_ again, and he can’t stop all the unwanted thoughts from rushing into his brain. What if Tony’s so disgusted by him that he’d rather leave his own home than stay in bed with him? What if Tony never comes back? What if last night was just a dream – what if the past few weeks were _all_ a dream, and he’d never even spoken to Tony since the parade, and Tony’s _actually_ dead, crushed by several tons of cement, and his body’s in the ocean somewhere, because Gob’s so _useless_ that he couldn’t even give him a proper burial, so he had _Buster_ get rid of it – and then he’d lost his mind somewhere along the way, and broken into Tony’s apartment, convinced that Tony was still alive and that they could still be together, and the cops are outside with a SWAT team right now, ready to bust in and haul him away forever?

 

He feels tears beginning to form in his eyes at the idea of that, and he immediately tries to snap himself out of it, because what if Tony _is_ here, and he’s just waiting for Gob to say ‘wonder’ so he can pop out from somewhere? He doesn’t want Tony to see him cry; he _really_ doesn’t want Tony to see him cry – and he’s not crying _yet_ , anyway; his eyes are just watery – so he squeezes them shut as tightly as possible, tensing up his entire body in an effort to will away the tears, and a moment later he feels the feeling subside. He relaxes, opens his eyes again, and then sits up.

 

“Tony?” he calls out, cringing at the neediness in his voice – he’d attempted to mask it, but that hadn’t quite worked out. He knows he should probably have said ‘wonder’, in case Tony’s hiding, but he’s also noticed how half the time Tony doesn’t actually wait for his cue before popping out of wherever he is, and he really wants to see him, just to make sure he’s still there.

 

The bathroom door opens then, and Tony pokes his head out. “Hey, Gobie,” he says. “Good morning. I’m just fixing my hair. I’ll be out in a sec.”

 

Gob nods, and starts to reply with a “same”, but as he opens his mouth it occurs to him that he’s _not_ fixing his hair, and, in fact, he has no idea what his hair even looks like right now. He shuts his mouth again instead and pulls his knees up to his chest, reaching one hand up to smooth his hair back.

 

“Same,” he whispers, because _now_ he can say it, but Tony doesn’t hear him – he spoke the word so quietly he barely heard it himself. It occurs to him then that he’s still naked, and Tony’s wearing a robe, and suddenly he feels extremely vulnerable. He also feels a little stupid for not checking the bathroom before he freaked out, and now he’s embarrassed. The door is still open, though, and the bathroom mirror gives him a partial view of what Tony’s doing, so he watches Tony fix his hair while he tries to force himself to relax. It’s some comfort, at least, being able to see him now.

 

“You cold?” Tony asks a moment later, rejoining Gob on the bed.

 

“Huh?”

 

“The blanket,” Tony clarifies, and Gob realizes then that he’s wrapped himself up in the comforter.

 

“Oh, maybe a little,” he answers. He’s not, really, but he’s also distracted. He’s half expecting Tony to ask him to leave any minute now, or, even worse, ask him why he’s still here. His heart is beating a little more quickly than he’d like for it to be, despite his best attempts to calm his nerves, and when Tony leans in and kisses him he isn’t expecting it. The instant Tony’s lips touch his, he feels all the anxiety melt from his body, and finally he’s able to relax and just enjoy the moment. He drops back down against the pillows, pulling Tony with him, and moans softly into Tony’s mouth. Tony moans back, and Gob feels himself getting increasingly turned on.

 

“Hey,” Tony gasps out when they break for air, “you want me to make you breakfast, or do you wanna go for Round 4 first?”

 

Gob flashes back to the previous evening – Round 1 had been on the living room couch, just hands and mouths, hot and heavy and over all too soon. They’d made it back to the bedroom for Round 2, which was really the main event of the night. Round 3 had been more or less unplanned; they’d been showering together when Tony pinned Gob against the wall, and things had escalated from there. They’d ended up back in Tony’s bed afterward, both too worn out at that point to do anything else, and they’d talked for a while, then fallen asleep in each other’s arms. It was easily one of the best nights of Gob’s life, and reminiscing about it is making him even harder.

 

“Mm-hmm,” he mumbles, too worked up now to respond with anything else, and his hands fumble to undo Tony’s robe. Tony chuckles and slips out of it, then slips underneath the covers, and their lips crash together once again while their hands explore further south. It’s a good morning, indeed.

 

-

 

A half-hour later, Tony’s back in his robe in the kitchen scrambling eggs, humming something that sounds vaguely like ‘The Final Countdown’, and Gob is watching him from a barstool. He’s wearing a t-shirt and some boxers that Tony said he could borrow. Both are a little snug, but Gob doesn’t mind. He’d be content to never take them off. He feels weirdly at peace right now, like he could live in this moment forever, and only _some_ of that feeling is due to the mind-blowing orgasm he just had a few minutes ago.

 

“Here you go,” Tony says, setting a plate down in front of him. He sets another at the spot next to Gob, then joins him at the bar. “Sorry to serve you something so _basic_ , but I haven’t really been shopping much since I’ve been back in town.”

 

“What are you _talking_ about?” Gob asks through a mouthful of eggs. “This is _incredible_.”

 

The last time someone made him eggs, he couldn’t even finish them – just because her _name_ was Bland didn’t mean her _cooking_ had to be, did it? He didn’t think so, but apparently _she_ did. Tony’s cooking, on the other hand, is anything but. The last time someone made him eggs, he remembers, he accidentally proposed – he feels a blush creep into his cheeks as he imagines proposing to Tony. He would do it in a heartbeat, he realizes, _intentionally_ , even, and he blushes even deeper.

 

“You’re cute,” Tony says, observing him fondly.

 

“W-what are we?” Gob blurts out, unable to stop himself.

 

There’s a multitude of questions spinning around inside his head, and he’s silently thankful that _that_ was the one that made it out of his mouth. Asking ‘is this love?’ might’ve been a little _too_ weird, because what if Tony doesn’t feel the same way – _oh, god, what if Tony doesn’t feel the same way_? – and it would’ve been even _more_ embarrassing if he’d accidentally said ‘marry me’, especially since he would’ve meant it 100% and this is only, what, their fourth date? He’s also thankful that he managed to say it at a moment when Tony didn’t have food in his mouth; as much as he’d enjoyed performing the Heimlich maneuver that one time, he really didn’t want to have to do it again. The thought of Tony almost dying again is terrifying.

 

“What do you mean?” Tony asks back. The look on his face is near-impossible to read( _a magician never reveals his secrets_ , Gob reminds himself), but Gob gets the impression that he’s wondering(somebody said!) the same thing.

 

“Y-you know what I mean,” Gob stutters. “Are we – are we boyfriends?” _Please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes_ , he adds internally.

 

Tony pauses, and his eyes glimmer in anticipation. “Do you… _want_ to be boyfriends?” he asks hopefully.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Gob says immediately.

 

“ _Same_!” Tony shouts, his entire face lighting up, and Gob is so happy he could almost cry. _Almost_. He’s still embarrassed by the idea of doing that in front of Tony. He turns back to his plate, grinning so widely he’s afraid his face might split open, and resumes eating his eggs. He sneaks a glance at Tony from the corner of his eye and sees that he’s smiling just as wide.

 

“Same,” Gob echoes softly. He’s completely over the moon – this is _real_ , this is _really happening_. He’s eating breakfast with _Tony Wonder_ , in _Tony Wonder’s_ apartment, and he’s had sex four times since last night with _Tony Wonder_ – he’s dating _Tony Wonder_. For the next few minutes, that’s the only thing that matters.

 

Then his phone rings, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s forgotten, somehow, that he even _ha_ _s_ a phone – it’s still in his pants pocket, and his pants are still on the floor beside the couch where he’d discarded them last night. It’s not the phone itself that startles him, really, but the reminder that there is, in fact, more to the world than himself and Tony Wonder, no matter how badly he wants to shut everything else out and just focus on his life with Tony. He doesn’t get up to answer it – _what if it’s his family_? He knows they can’t actually _see_ where he is right now and what he’s wearing through a phone call, but he still feels like if he answers it in his current state they’ll just _know_ somehow.

 

They’ll _know_ that he’s gay – _he_ knows that he’s gay now. He can’t deny it anymore, not after last night – it’d been simple enough to say that Cinco was a one-time thing(two-time, _fine_ , if he was counting by orgasms), even though he’d done things with other men in the past(and the fact that he _could_ remember it made him suspect there had been other times that he _couldn’t_ remember), even though it’d been so much _better_ than anything he’d _ever_ done with a woman – but last night and this morning had proved, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he, George Oscar Bluth II, is, as his mother would say, a filthy homosexual. He doesn’t necessarily _want_ to deny it anymore either, at least not to himself, and not to Tony. The rest of the world, though – that’s a whole other jar of bees that he doesn’t want to open up.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Tony asks, concerned, reaching for Gob’s hand, and Gob realizes he’s been frozen in place since the phone started ringing.

 

“We shouldn’t, you know, _tell_ anyone,” he answers, as Tony rubs his fingers. “Th-that we’re together, I mean. It’ll be bad for business. You know, since we’re rivals and everything.”

 

“Oh, yeah, no, of course,” Tony says. Mark Cherry’s ‘Getaway’ is still playing in the background, but neither acknowledges it.

 

“It’ll be our little secret,” Gob continues. “Everyone will think we’re just with each other for hand stuff. Like, in a rivals kind of way. Nobody will know we’re actually… in love.” His voice gets ever-so-slightly higher at the end of the sentence, as though he’s asking a question(and really, he is, whether he realizes it or not), and Tony nods enthusiastically.

 

“That’s genius, Gobie,” he says. “It’s just a shame we won’t be able to, you know, do this…” he leans forward, pulling Gob into a kiss.

 

“Wha – why not?” Gob whines when they pull apart.

 

Tony scoffs playfully. “The secrecy aspect? People will see.”

 

“Well, they don’t have to know it’s a _romantic_ kiss,” Gob reasons, as Tony clears their plates. “As long as they don’t know we’re _dating_ , kissing should be fine.”

 

“That makes sense,” Tony says, closing the dishwasher.

 

“So we can still kiss, and we can still do hand stuff, and mouth stuff, and other stuff. We just won’t tell anyone we’re a couple,” Gob confirms, joining Tony in the kitchen.

 

“Definitely,” Tony replies, taking a step closer to Gob. “And they’ll never figure it out, either, because we’re so good at pretending to be rivals.”

 

“Same!” Gob says, closing the gap between them. “We are _illusionists_ , after all. It’ll be easy.”

 

-

 

As it turns out, though, it’s easier said than done. Sally Sitwell calls a week later, and she’s _mad_.

 

“Are you at work right now?” she asks.

 

“Uh, _yes_ ,” Tony answers, rolling his eyes. The full power of this magnificent gesture is lost on Sally, who tragically cannot see him through the phone. Gob sees it, though, and he snickers. “And you’re actually kind of interrupting a super important meeting, so if you could just-”

 

“Nice try, Tony. There’s nothing on your schedule.”

 

“Since when do I have to _schedule_ a just hands meeting?”

 

Sally groans, loudly. “Oh my god. Are you seriously – _right now_?”

 

“Not yet,” Tony answers, truthfully.

 

He and Gob are both still fully clothed, although Tony’s right hand is currently in the process of undoing Gob’s belt buckle while he holds the phone with his left. They’re on the couch in Tony’s office, and they’ve spent the past several minutes making out, featuring just a _tiny_ bit of over-the-clothes stuff. It’s the way they’ve been spending most weekdays – Gob hasn’t actually set foot inside the Austero-Bluth Company building since back before the wall unveiling.

 

“Well, don’t start,” Sally says. “I need to talk to you.”

 

“I can multitask,” Tony replies, as he slips his hand inside Gob’s pants and begins massaging him through his briefs.

 

Gob throws his head back against the cushion. “Don’t stop,” he says breathlessly, gripping the edge of the seat. “That feels so good.”

 

Tony smirks and increases his pace, causing Gob to let out a loud moan. His eyes go wide and he clamps a hand to his mouth – he did _not_ mean to do that, and while he’s embarrassed by his unexpected outburst, he’s also incredibly turned on. So is Tony, for that matter, but he’s trying to play it cool.

 

Tony chuckles. “Shh, Gobie. There’s like ten people in the room right next to us,” he says teasingly, stilling his hand momentarily.

 

“S-sorry,” Gob gasps out. Then Tony slips his hand _inside_ Gob’s briefs, grabbing hold of him and stroking deliberately, and Gob can’t help but moan again, although quieter this time. Tony leans in and kisses him on the mouth, his hand still steadily stroking.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Tony!” Sally yells, ruining the moment. “At _least_ take me off of speaker first!”

 

“Way to kill the mood, _Stickwell_ ,” Gob says, panting, as Tony pulls away. In truth, he’s still very much _in_ the mood, but _Sally_ doesn’t have to know that.

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sally says, and Tony can literally _hear_ her facepalming through the phone. “You know what, though? That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

“What is?” Tony asks. His hand is still hard at work, as is he – the act of getting Gob off is a major turn on, especially with those noises he keeps making.

 

“Your little… _hands_ thing,” Sally replies. “You _cannot_ be doing that shit at _work_!”

 

“Hang on, Gobie,” he says to Gob, withdrawing his hand from the other man’s pants. Gob whines involuntarily at the sudden lack of contact, but manages to compose himself.

 

“Are you serious?” Tony asks Sally, returning his hand to its previous position after taking the phone off speaker. Gob, however, pushes it away, shaking his head – this really is starting to kill the mood.

 

“I’ll wait,” he whispers to Tony, who nods.

 

“Okay, _wow_ ,” Tony says into the phone a moment later. “I’m listening. _Sheesh_! Well, why not? I’m the president. Uh, _yeah_ , meaning I can do what I want – okay fine. I just don’t get it, okay? Hey! _Hey_! I am _not_ fifty!”

 

“It _does_ matter! You called me _fifty_!” he continues, indignant. “Well, you didn’t have to say it like _that_. And what’s even the problem here? There’s no problem – because you haven’t even told me yet, that’s why! No, uh-uh, back up. He’s _not_ my boyfriend.” Tony winks at Gob. “Right, he’s _not_. Yeah, of course _you_ don’t care – wait, what security cameras? I didn’t know those were there!”

 

Gob, meanwhile, seems to have changed his mind about waiting. “Touch me,” he whispers to Tony, who gladly obliges, albeit going almost agonizingly slow.

 

“Uh, _no_ , you _didn’t_ , actually – huh – oh, oh _yeah_ ,” Tony continues into the phone. “Okay, well, I was _distracted_ , so – uh, yeah, again, _so_ sorry about that. _Really_ wish I hadn’t done that. You’re _still_ mad, though? That was a _week_ ago! _Okay_ , but you _sound_ pretty mad. Why are you mad – oh, _right_ , the sex thing. On camera – look, if you mean on the conference table, that was just dry humping. You know, _frottage_ – shit, those are HD cameras? Whoops – _hey_! Well, am I thirteen or fifty? Make up your mind, woman!”

 

“ _Tony_ ,” Gob whimpers. He doesn’t have to say the rest; they both know Tony’s being a terrible tease.

 

“You said you’d wait, remember?” Tony whispers slyly, Sally still shouting on the other end of the phone call, and Gob nods, biting his lip. “Don’t worry,” Tony continues. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

Gob leans back again, closing his eyes. “You’re doing so good,” Tony whispers, and Gob moans softly.

 

“Okay, well, _guess what_?” Tony yells into the phone when Sally finally pauses for a moment. “I charged the dry-cleaning bill to the _company_! How do you feel about _that_ , huh? What – okay, fine, _fine_ , I’m shutting up. _Jesus_. Oh, uh, I have no idea what you’re referring to – oh, so you _did_ notice that, huh? Well, I mean, that could’ve been anything – you _don’t_ know for sure – look, there’s nothing wrong with a discrete little office blowjob every now and then – yes it _is_! Well, you could’ve closed it! You have hands too!”

 

Gob smirks – so she knows about the conference table, and she knows about the blowjob under Tony’s desk, but she doesn’t seem to be aware of what happened in the janitor’s closet, or the hand job exchange in the men’s room, or – _fuck_ , he really needs to stop thinking about that right now or he’s not gonna be able to last long enough to do anything else. He’s almost embarrassingly close already, and Tony’s hand is still moving at a snail’s pace.

 

Tony frowns. “She hung up on me,” he says to Gob. “She must be on her period or something.” He tosses the phone aside, then flips back into seduction mode. “Now, where were we?”

 

“I heard the words ‘office blowjob’,” Gob replies, breathing heavily. “Maybe you could – _oh_.”

 

-

 

Another week goes by, and Gob, at the behest of his mother, returns to work at the Austero-Bluth Company. As far as he knows, he’s still the president; he isn’t sure exactly where that whole ‘being co-presidents with _Michael_ , quitting because _Michael_ was being homophobic, becoming president of Fakeblock, _Michael_ getting fired, then the Chinese buying Fakeblock’ situation leaves him in terms of everything, but he’s fine with it as long as he gets to have the big office. He isn’t sure what, exactly, the Austero-Bluth Company even _does_ anymore, either, and Adhir doesn’t seem too eager to tell him.

 

Adhir _did_ move that computer up from the third floor, though, so now he doesn’t have to go down there every time he wants to check his email. Something about it being “far too distracting to have you come _gallivanting_ through here every _five seconds_ while I’m _trying_ to do work that’s _meant_ to be _yours_ ,” which Gob thought was an awfully long way of saying “trying to suck up to the boss” – plus, as he’d smugly informed Adhir, there’s already someone else sucking him up now. Adhir had made a face at that, and muttered something about “if your mother didn’t still have my passport…” that Gob had completely tuned out.

 

He spends most of his time at work now(and he _doesn’t_ spend a lot of time at work now, either; he usually only comes in for a few non-consecutive hours a day) staring at the Rite-Aid roof and thinking about Tony. It’s not like before, when he used to stare at the Rite-Aid roof and wonder if Tony was ever coming back, if they’d ever see each other again. Instead, he thinks about little things – where they’ll go for dinner, whose turn it is to pick a movie. He’s woken up in Tony Wonder’s bed every morning for the past two and a half weeks, and every time he feels just as content as he did that first day. His stuff is all over Tony’s apartment now – he’d moved a lot of it from the model home that first morning, when he ran into _Michael_ – and it feels like it _belongs_ there. _He_ feels like _he_ belongs there.

 

“Gob,” Adhir says blankly from the doorway, and he spins around to look at him.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Oh, good, you’re decent,” Adhir says. He had walked in on something yesterday that he would’ve much preferred not to see.

 

Gob scoffs. “Why _wouldn’t_ I be decent? _Come on_! You think the guy in the _$5000 suit_ wouldn’t – should the guy-”

 

“ _This_ is why,” Adhir says bluntly, cutting him off. “You’ve a visitor.” He motions for someone just outside Gob’s line of sight to enter the room, then frowns when no one does. “No, I will _not_ say it. Why should I have to say your _name_ in order for you to-”

 

“Did somebody say _wonder_?” Tony exclaims, shoving Adhir out of the way. He hits the doorframe, and mutters an ‘ow’, but neither Gob nor Tony pays him any attention.

 

“Tony!” Gob yells, launching his spinning chair across the room so he can embrace his ‘secret’ boyfriend.

 

“No one did, I’m afraid,” Adhir says, readjusting his glasses.

 

“Uh, do you mind?” Gob asks, his arms still wrapped around Tony. Adhir rolls his eyes, then turns and walks away. He’d rather leave them to it, anyhow – no use reliving yesterday’s nightmare.

 

“That guy’s kind of a dick,” Tony says as he and Gob let go of each other.

 

“Same,” Gob replies, nodding. “Same opinion, I mean.”

 

“Can we talk?” Tony asks, motioning to the door. “You know, in private?”

 

Gob nods, and Tony shuts the office door, then takes a step closer. Tony begins to open his mouth, and in turn Gob begins to panic – _this is it_ , he thinks to himself, _he’s about to tell you he hates you and never wants to see you again and everything between us was just a joke and_ -

 

“Don’t worry; it’s nothing bad,” Tony quickly adds, sensing Gob’s unease, and Gob feels his entire body relax. “I just don’t want to be overheard.”

 

“Right,” Gob says, feeling a little silly now. “Don’t you want to… have a seat first?” he asks, gesturing to his lap. He’s hoping a little flirting will lighten the mood, and it seems to do the trick.

 

“Seat of honor, huh?” Tony says, smirking, as he lowers himself into Gob’s chair.

 

“Best seat in the house,” Gob replies. “Well, best seat in the office.” He reaches down, adjusting the chair to lean back as far as it’ll go. Tony turns his head to the side, running his goatee along Gob’s neck, and Gob squirms underneath him, laughing breathlessly.

 

“Careful, Gobie,” Tony warns. “This thing’s not gonna fall over, is it?”

 

“Nah, I’ve done this tons of times.”

 

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Have you now?”

 

“Oh yeah, back when I thought I was straight. I used to have this trick/illusion-type thing I would do to get guys to sit on my lap. I’d be all, ‘Hey, guy, can you come in here for a moment? I need your help. This chair’s acting really weird.’ and then the guy would come in, and I’d be like, ‘Sit in my lap. I’ll show you.’ and then he would, and I’d lean the chair way back to try to ‘recreate the problem’. It worked _every_ time, and they had _no idea_ I was into it.”

 

Tony chuckles. “Uh, yeah… I hate to be the one to break it to you, Gobie, but they _totally_ knew you were into it.”

 

Gob’s face falls. “Is it _that_ obvious?”

 

“How did you explain the giant boner?” He grinds his hips against Gob for emphasis, and Gob gasps in response, prompting another lighthearted chuckle from Tony.

 

“ _They_ never said anything,” Gob pouts.

 

“I mean to _yourself_ ,” Tony clarifies, nuzzling Gob’s neck with his goatee again, and Gob lets out another breathless laugh.

 

“Oh. I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it too much, I guess.”

 

“I love you,” Tony says without thinking. It’s entirely true, but he’s never actually said it out loud before, he realizes, and he feels Gob freeze up underneath him.

 

“Same,” Gob whispers, and then he bursts into tears. He’s not even sure why, although to anyone else it would have been obvious, but he’s suddenly so full of emotion that he can’t contain it no matter how hard he tries.

 

Tony immediately jumps up, alarmed. “Holy shit, Gobie, are you okay? I didn’t mean to upset you. I…” he trails off, unsure what else to say. He’s never been the type to rush to comfort someone, and currently that particular trait is working against him.

 

“S-sorry,” Gob chokes out in between sobs.

 

He stands up and moves to the couch, tears streaming down his face. Tony follows him, and for the next minute or two Gob finds himself unable to do anything but sob into Tony’s shoulder. Tony holds him tightly the entire time, rubbing his back and whispering that it’s okay. _This seems kind of gay_ , Tony thinks to himself, and then he remembers that he literally just told this man he loves him, because he _does_ , and he realizes that, _yeah_ , _this is pretty fucking gay_. Not only that, but he’s completely okay with it.

 

“I’m ruining your suit,” Gob sobs, without lifting his head. It’s true – there’s a definite damp spot on the shoulder Gob’s been crying into.

 

“That’s okay,” Tony says reassuringly. “Not the first time you’ve done that.”

 

Gob looks up then, and Tony winks at him, and then they both laugh, even though Gob is still crying.

 

“I’m sorry,” Gob says again once he’s managed to compose himself somewhat. “I-I don’t know what happened. You didn’t upset me. I’m not upset, and I’m not sad, o-or whatever. I just – I really like you. I-I mean, I love you too, a-and hearing you say it…” It’s Gob’s turn to trail off. He realizes no one’s ever actually told him they love him before, at least not anyone he loves back, and another tear runs down his face before he can stop it.

 

“Hey,” Tony says, dabbing at Gob’s tear-stained face with the never-ending handkerchief he has up his sleeve. “I said it because I meant it. I do love you.”

 

Gob very nearly starts crying again, but instead he pulls Tony into an extremely tight embrace. “I love you too,” he says again, and Tony kisses him softly. He feels a strange sense of relief – he just cried in front of Tony for the first time, and Tony didn’t make fun of him for it. That’s another first for him. He also feels the urge to act like it didn’t happen, so that’s what he does.

 

“This is so gay,” he states, trying to sound confident and casual, and he hates that his voice is still quavering.

 

“Yeah,” Tony responds. “Yeah, it is. I guess we’re just a couple of homos.”

 

“Same,” Gob says, squeezing him tighter, and Tony kisses him again.

 

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Gob asks, wiping the last traces of moisture from his eyes, the moment they break away from each other. This time, the words come out sounding as stable as he intends them to – that most recent kiss seemed to really help. He’s almost back to normal now.

 

Tony blinks, mildly confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Oh, right. See, it’s just… those douchebags from the gay mafia. I’ve been thinking about them.”

 

“Bunch of drama thugs,” Gob agrees, repeating Tony’s words from the wall unveiling.

 

“Yeah, exactly. I mean, look what they did to us.” The two men are seated on the couch and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.

 

“We’re magicians,” Tony continues. “We should be doing magic shows. Instead we’re stuck working these lame office jobs. Remember what you said to me at the parade?”

 

“Which part?” Gob asks, scooting a little closer. He knows exactly which part, but he wants to hear Tony say it.

 

“The part about hitting the road together. You know, do a tour. We could’ve been The Gay Magician _s_ , plural. Instead I had to go to fucking _Branson_.”

 

“Yeah, Branson sucks,” Gob agrees. He’s never been there, but that’s where Tony was between the parade and the wall unveiling, and that’s enough to make him hate the place. He rests his head on Tony’s still-wet shoulder, content with the fact that at least he’s here now.

 

“We should get back at them,” Tony says, wrapping his right arm around Gob.

 

Gob, however, looks a little hesitant. For most of his life, that’s exactly what he would have done – rush into a situation such as this one head-on with little to no regard for his wellbeing. Now, though, something’s changed – he has something(some _one_ )( _Tony_ ) in his life now that he cares about deeply, and suddenly he’s not so eager to endanger it.

 

“I-I don’t know,” he replies, glancing up at Tony. “They have all that… _cement_. What if they bury us?”

 

“They’re not gonna _bury_ us, Gobie,” Tony says gently, kissing him on the forehead. “They don’t _actually_ do that. It’s all for show. Like my gay magician act before we got together.”

 

“Yeah, but that turned out to be real,” Gob points out.

 

“Okay, true, but this is totally different. Just think about it.”

 

Gob does think about it, but he’s still not convinced. “I don’t know,” he says again. He adjusts his position, climbing into Tony’s lap and leaning back against the arm of the couch.

 

“Trust me, we won’t be in any _danger_ ,” Tony says, sliding his left arm behind Gob’s back for support. “It doesn’t even have to be _revenge_ revenge. We could just show up at their headquarters hand in hand and be like, ‘Fuck you, gay mafia! Who’s a _fake gay_ now?’”

 

“But then they would know we’re dating,” Gob points out, looking more than a little hesitant at the idea.

 

“Yeah, but it’s just the mafia,” Tony tries to reassure him. “Those guys wouldn’t still be in business if they didn’t know how to keep a secret.”

 

Gob considers that for a moment. It _does_ make sense, except for… “Wait, but won’t they – I mean, we’re the two guys who ‘faked being gay’. Won’t they assume we’re only fake dating?”

 

“Shit,” Tony says. “I didn’t think about that. You’re right. We’ll need some way to convince them. Any ideas?”

 

-

 

The perfect idea doesn’t come to Gob until a few weeks later. He wakes up in the middle of the night, lips parched and throat bone-dry, and makes his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He drinks it on the couch, so as not to wake Tony – and he can’t help but remember another occasion during which he sat on this same couch, drinking water from this same glass(or a similar one, at least; all of Tony’s glasses look the same), and made plans for a sex date with Tony. Their first time, the night he’d tried so hard to forget – the night he’d made a sex tape for revenge. It seems so _silly_ now; why would he _ever_ want to get revenge on _Tony_? It’s too bad he can’t use that sex tape for revenge on the gay mafia… or _can_ he?

 

“Tony!” he shouts, rushing back into the bedroom and shaking his sleeping boyfriend. “Tony! Tony! Wake up!”

 

“What the – Gobie, what the _hell_?” Tony asks, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair is all messed up, which Gob finds adorable, but he’s far too excited right now to really dwell on it.

 

“I figured it out!” he replies eagerly, bouncing up and down.

 

“Figured _what_ out?” Tony groans, lying back down. “Gobie, you know I love you, but it’s-” he pauses to check the clock “- 3:06 AM in the fucking _morning_ right now, so-”

 

“The gay mafia thing! How we can get revenge on them!”

 

Tony immediately sits back up, suddenly awake. “I’m listening,” he says.

 

“Our sex tape,” Gob proudly announces, sitting down next to Tony on the bed.

 

“Our _what_?”

 

“Our sex tape! Remember, from Cinco? I wanted to get revenge on you for pretending to be gay, and you wanted to get revenge on _me_ for pretending to be gay, and John Beard had all his pervert cams set up in the bedroom, so the plan was for that Plant girl to wear a Gob mask, and I would wear a Tony Wonder mask, and then I’d bang her, and then rip off her mask to reveal that you were having straight sex, ruining your career-”

 

Tony frowns. “No, the plan was for _her_ to wear a Tony Wonder mask, and _I’d_ wear the Gob mask, then me and her would bang, and that would out _you_ as gay and ruin _your_ career-”

 

Gob frowns back. “Uh, no, that was _your_ plan. I meant _my_ plan.”

 

“Yeah, well, neither one of our plans really worked out that great, so-”

 

Gob tilts his head. “I don’t know; I think I got what I wanted.”

 

“Same!” Tony replies, and Gob can’t resist kissing him. They’re so _same_ , so, _so_ same, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it. He doesn’t (Tony!)wonder anymore if this is love – it has to be, he’s decided. There’s just no other word for it. His heart gets hard every time he thinks about Tony, and that’s not the only thing.

 

“So, wait,” Tony says when they break apart, “how does our sex tape help us with the gay mafia?”

 

“Because,” Gob answers matter-of-factly, “it’s the two of us fucking. There’s nothing fake-gay about _that_. And it has all the dialogue about, you know… _feelings_.” And the admissions that they’ve each thought about the other while jerking off, but he leaves that part unsaid.

 

“True.” Tony thinks for a moment. “And it’s probably got a timestamp, too, right? May 4th was before the mafia got onto either one of us, so that should prove beyond any reasonable doubt that we weren’t just doing it to get back at them.”

 

“I don’t know,” Gob admits. “I haven’t _actually_ seen it.”

 

“You don’t have it?” Tony asks, mildly surprised. It makes sense – if Gob _did_ have the sex tape, they would’ve _definitely_ watched it together at some point – but _still_ , the way he was talking about it just now…

 

“John Beard came back and got the cameras, like, the _next day_ , so no. I was too busy freaking out about the whole ‘being in love with a man’ thing…” Gob trails off and reaches for his cell phone. “But _he_ still has it. We just have to get it from him.”

 

“Oh, well that’s easy enough,” Tony says sarcastically. “Just call up the station and be like ‘hey, I think you have my sex tape, could I get that back maybe’ – Gobie, who are you calling?”

 

“The station,” Gob answers, and Tony, realizing his boyfriend must not have caught the sarcasm, facepalms.

 

“Babe, I was kidding. It’s three in the morning. No one’s even gonna be there…” Tony trails off as he hears the sound of the call being accepted. “ _I stand corrected_ ,” he mutters to himself.

 

“Hey, John! This is Gob Bluth. I used to bang your wife – _hello_?”

 

Tony raises his eyebrows at Gob, who’s frowning at the phone. “He told me to go fuck myself, and then he hung up,” Gob informs Tony.

 

“Probably shouldn’t have started off with ‘I used to bang your wife’,” Tony observes, yawning.

 

Gob yawns involuntarily in response. “Well, that part’s not even technically true. I never _actually_ fucked her. Plus, they weren’t together anymore, so it’s not like-”

 

“Shh,” Tony says, pressing a finger to Gob’s lips. “We’ll figure this out in the morning. Let’s just go back to sleep now, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Gob answers, crawling back underneath the covers and snuggling up next to his boyfriend. He yawns a second time, suddenly realizing how tired he is, and falls asleep again even before Tony does.

 

-

 

The next morning, they discuss the issue over scrambled eggs. It’s a meal they’ve been having most mornings – not every day, but several times a week at least. Both of them now associate scrambled eggs with that first morning, the morning they _officially_ began their relationship, but neither one has acknowledged this out loud. They like leaving _some_ things unsaid, after all – the illusion of having secrets is a perfect throwback to the earliest days of their romance.

 

“I could ask Joni Beard,” Gob says. “Since John’s being a dick about it, I mean. I know she has the video. She told me when I…” he trails off, slightly embarrassed at the memory of being called ‘the gayest man she’s ever met’, even if it _is_ true.

 

“So your ex-beard has seen us fucking?” Tony asks, his fork halfway to his mouth.

 

“Well, so has Sally Sitwell,” Gob points out, taking a swig of his orange juice. “Plus, Joni said it was hot.”

 

Tony swallows his mouthful of eggs, then smirks. “Yeah, all _Sally_ said it was is ‘inappropriate’.”

 

“I think she’s jealous,” Gob says.

 

“Same!” He pauses. “So, do you have Joni’s number?”

 

“Yeah, but she doesn’t like to answer my calls. We should probably just go down there and surprise her.”

 

Tony nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

When they arrive at the station an hour and a half later, however, Joni isn’t the one who’s surprised. The door to her dressing room is wide open, which had been intended as a courtesy to her hairstylist from her makeup artist, and which would instead result in a lecture later on about preventing magicians from just _waltzing right_ _on_ _in_ uninvited, as certain magicians are prone to do.

 

“So, you two finally got together, huh?” she observes, glancing back and forth between them. She’s not too thrilled that this development is happening _right now_ , but she goes on the air in twenty minutes, and her hairstylist should be here in five, which means that’s the maximum amount of time she’ll be required to tolerate whatever the hell this is.

 

“We’re not-” Gob starts.

 

“Can it,” Joni interrupts, holding up a freshly-manicured hand. “Gob, sweetheart, I’m not _stupid_.”

 

“H-how’d you know?” Gob asks, startled into dropping the charade. “W-what gave it away?”

 

His fingers are still intertwined with Tony’s, and both men are sporting very prominent hickeys they’d developed in the ninety minutes since their breakfast conversation. Joni gives them her best ‘are you kidding me’ face.

 

“She’s seen us fucking, remember?” Tony says, looking up at Gob. He notices Gob’s tie is still undone from their little tryst in the parking lot, and quickly reaches up to adjust it.

 

“Oh, right. _Duh_ ,” Gob replies, smacking his forehead.

 

“So why are you two here, exactly?” Joni asks, her patience quickly wearing thin. “I’m assuming it’s not for the same reason you’ve come to me in the past,” she adds, motioning to the hickeys.

 

“Uh, no,” Gob replies sheepishly. “That’s over with.”

 

“We want our sex tape,” Tony says bluntly. Gob nods. Joni raises her eyebrows – at least _one_ of these dumbasses is willing to get straight to the point.

 

“Ah,” she answers. “I knew this day would come. Hang on. I’ve got it right-” she opens up a drawer, rummages around for a few seconds, then pulls out a thumb drive “-here.” She thrusts it in Gob’s direction, and he hesitates. “What are you _waiting_ for? Take it.”

 

“That’s it?” Gob asks, eyeing the thumb drive with suspicion as he accepts it from her.

 

Joni nods. “Yeah, the whole thing. John even included the part with this one-” she gestures at Tony “-downstairs with that religious girl. It really sells the whole, ‘ _This_ is your new man?’ vibe he’s been going for with his drunk emails.”

 

“No, I mean, you don’t want anything in return? We could make you a _sequel_ ,” he offers, raising his eyebrows. Tony leans in and does the same thing.

 

Joni facepalms. It’s tempting – at least then she’d have something to reply to her ex-husband with the next time he drunk-emails her. He still does it multiple times a week, even _months_ after her ‘relationship’ with Gob came to a close, and it’s just plain _annoying_. What she _really_ wants, though, is for these two men to leave her dressing room.

 

“Gob, honey,” she says, “all I want from you is for you to get the _hell_ out of my life already. Next time I see you, it better be when I’m first on the scene of your family’s latest catastrophe. Otherwise, I call the cops. You understand?”

 

Gob and Tony both nod, and Joni flashes a half-genuine smile.

 

“Awesome,” she says. “Now get out.”

 

-

 

They’re in Gob’s office at the Austero-Bluth Company a half-hour later, trying to figure out how to operate a thumb drive, when Tony’s phone rings. It’s Sally Sitwell, according to the caller ID, so he reluctantly answers it. He _does_ technically owe her for getting him his job, as mundane as it can be when Gob’s not around, so he figures he should at least pick up.

 

“ _What_?” he groans into the phone, complete with another dramatic eyeroll that only Gob appreciates.

 

“Why aren’t you at work today?” she asks. Her voice sounds _really_ different today, Tony notices.

 

“Why do you sound like that?” he asks back instead of answering.

 

“ _Huh_? Oh, _right_ – this isn’t Sally. I’m Lindsay Bluth-Funke, her assistant. She had me call you, because she’s busy with-”

 

“ _Lindsay_?” Gob asks, surprised to hear the voice of his… _sister_? She’s his sister, he decides, even if she’s adopted and her real mom is his dead grandmother. He’d given himself a headache trying to figure out what their actual biological relation would be after the wall unveiling and subsequently given up on it altogether.

 

“ _Gob_?” Lindsay replies. She then pauses for a moment, as though connecting invisible dots. “ _Oh_ , I get it. I’ll tell her.”

 

“Get what?” Gob asks. “Wait, what are you telling her? Lindsay?”

 

Her next words are muffled, as though she’s attempting to cover the receiver. “He’s with his boyfriend.”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Gob and Tony say at the same time, winking at each other. “Same!”

 

“Give me that,” Sally says in the background on Lindsay’s end. “Tony, what the hell?” she says into the phone.

 

“I’m taking a personal day! _Jesus_!” Tony responds. “My first one _ever_ , might I add-”

 

Sally sighs. For all the _situations_ he’s gotten himself into at Sitwell Construction, it _is_ true that he’s never missed a day until now. “Okay, well, just for future reference, you’re supposed to call in first.”

 

“Will do. _Bye_.” He hangs up before she can reply. “ _Bitch_ ,” he mutters. “Any luck?” he asks Gob.

 

“No, the stupid thing won’t connect,” Gob answers, motioning to the flash drive, which is currently resting on top of the computer tower. “And I _know_ it’s wireless, ‘cause there’s no wires. Do you think it’s supposed to have a wire and she just didn’t give it to us?”

 

“No, there’s a slot for it,” Tony says, walking across the room and inspecting the computer.

 

“I already tried that. It didn’t work,” Gob says, pointing at the CD tray. “I wish George Michael was here. He’d be able to figure this out for sure.”

 

“No, not that one,” Tony says, choosing to ignore the fact that Gob had actually genuinely thought that might work. “There should be a little – here we go. Right there.” He lines up the thumb drive with its correct slot.

 

“Okay, put it in,” Gob says.

 

“I’m putting it in,” Tony replies, doing so.

 

“Is it in yet?” Gob asks. It _clearly_ is, so Tony rolls his eyes.

 

“Uh, _yeah_ , it’s in.”

 

Gob looks at the screen, then frowns. “Nothing’s happening. Pull it back out.”

 

“Pulling out…” Tony mutters, not entirely sure why he’s narrating the process.

 

“Now stick it back in,” Gob requests.

 

“Okay, it’s back in,” Tony informs him.

 

Gob looks back at the screen. “Still nothing. Push it further in.”

 

“It’s in there as far as it’ll go!” Tony responds, a little frazzled.

 

“Push harder then,” Gob suggests.

 

“Gob, I don’t think-”

 

“Push harder, Tony!” he practically yells, then pauses. “Wait, I have an idea. _Adhir_!”

 

Like clockwork, Adhir appears in the doorway, his eyes shut tight and covered by his hand. “For the _last_ time, Gob, I have _no_ interest in participating in a three-way!”

 

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Tony asks. Adhir lowers his hand and opens his eyes to see that both men are fully clothed, hunched over Gob’s computer, and staring at him in confusion.

 

“I asked you that as a _joke_ ,” Gob says, rolling his eyes. “You – you really think, if we wanted a third person, it’d be _you_? _Come on_! Should the guy-”

 

“My apologies,” he says wearily. “I assumed, what with the dialogue – no, _irrelevant_. Why’d you call for me, then?”

 

“You’re a nerd, right?” Gob asks, sitting down in his chair and rolling over to Adhir.

 

Adhir rolls his eyes in response. “By _your_ standards, yes, I _suppose_ that would be an accurate descriptor. Although the fact that you-”

 

“Yeah, I don’t care,” Gob interrupts, returning from whence he came. “We need your help with this thingy.”

 

Adhir rolls his eyes a second time and makes his way over to the desk. Two things are immediately obvious to him: one, that the ‘thingy’ in question is a USB flash drive, and two, that the computer appears to be turned off. He raises his eyebrows at the two magicians – if this _is_ the setup for a trick, though, they’re hiding it very well. He decides he may as well help them out; either way, the sooner he obliges, the sooner he can get back to what he was doing before they called him in here.

 

“Well, I hate to be that fellow who states the glaringly obvious, but have you tried turning it on first?”

 

Gob scoffs. “Oh, that’s _rich_. Should the _guy_ – you think the guy in the, the _$6,500_ – the – _you_ – doesn’t know how to turn on a – should, _should_ -”

 

“Oh _shit_ ,” Tony mutters, realizing Adhir might be right. Gob, meanwhile, has no such stroke of intellect, much to Adhir’s vexation.

 

“Should the guy – you think the guy in the – doesn’t know how to turn on a _$700 computer_ – should, should, _should_ – of course it’s _on_ , doofus! Wha – why else would there be a flashing _light_?” He taps the light at the base of the monitor, failing to notice how the tower itself remains suspiciously dark.

 

“That’s the monitor,” Adhir points out. “You have to turn on the-”

 

“Uh, _no_ , that’s the _computer screen_ ,” Gob retorts, rolling his eyes.

 

“They’re two separate-” Adhir starts, then gives up, shaking his head in defeat.

 

“Gobie-” Tony tries to say, embarrassed on his behalf.

 

“No, babe – I mean, uh, _rival_ – this guy thinks he’s _so_ smart. Well, I’ll show him. I’ll show you, smart guy.” Gob reaches out and presses the power button on the tower. “Who’s stupid now?”

 

“You tell me,” Adhir replies, gesturing to the screen, which is now displaying the desktop background.

 

“Well, that was a freebie,” says Gob. Tony facepalms.

 

“I’ll just be going now,” Adhir announces, quickly heading for the exit. He manages to make it down the hall, around the corner, and about thirteen of the fifteen steps it takes him from there to reach his office before he hears Gob calling his name again. Sighing, he turns back around and returns reluctantly to the room he’d only just managed to escape from.

 

“What is it now, Gob?” he asks, making no effort to conceal his displeasure. It appears that, in the thirty seconds he’s been gone, Tony Wonder has chosen to sit in Gob’s lap, and this new arrangement certainly looks a lot less than innocent.

 

“You wanna watch our sex tape with us?” his boss asks. The man sitting in his boss’s lap wiggles his eyebrows.

 

Adhir immediately turns on his heels and hightails it out of there without a word.

 

“I guess that’s a no,” Gob remarks.

 

-

 

The next weekend, Gob finds himself standing outside of a familiar trailer in a familiar rock quarry, hand in hand with Tony Wonder. This is it, the moment of truth, the moment the gay mafia _finally_ gets what it has coming, and they’re planning to go in with a bang – a smoke bomb, to be specific. They’ve had one custom-made just for the occasion, infused with glitter. They doubt Argyle Austero will take too kindly to its contents being scattered all over his designer interior – which, as Tony pointed out, is all the more reason to do it. Tony has the thumb drive, and Gob has a boombox – they need intro music, after all, and what better than The Final Countdown? They’re showing up unannounced, which they’ve decided is the ultimate power move. After confirming to each other that they are, in fact, ready to do this, they burst through the door, detonating the smoke/glitter bomb and blasting the boombox at full volume.

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tony says after a moment, signaling for Gob to stop the dance they’d choreographed in preparation. “There’s nobody – shit. There’s nobody in here.”

 

“Damn it,” Gob says, slowing his movements. “That was our only smoke bomb!”

 

“Shit,” Tony repeats. The two men look around the room, then back at each other. The bomb _did_ manage to coat everything in a fine layer of glitter, and The Final Countdown is still playing in the background. However, the scene just feels incomplete without an irate mafia boss seated behind the desk.

 

“Maybe we should’ve told them we were coming,” Gob says, looking around the empty trailer in disappointment.

 

Tony shakes his head, refusing to accept that they’d possibly made a mistake with their master plan. “Nah, then we would’ve lost the element of surprise.”

 

“So do we just wait for them, or…”

 

Tony shrugs. Another few seconds pass before he gets an idea. “I know what would _really_ piss these guys off,” he says. “Going in with a _different_ kind of _bang_. You wanna fuck on Old Man Austero’s desk?”

 

“ _Fuck_ yes!” Gob replies, jumping onto the desk in question with so much enthusiasm that he nearly slides off it.

 

“Same!” Tony says, making his way around to the opposite side.

 

Gob sits up and scoots over to the edge of the desk, wrapping his arms around Tony and pulling him in, closing the gap between them. In an instant, Tony’s lips are on his, and Tony’s hands are reaching underneath Gob’s shirt while Gob’s hands attempt to pull Tony in even closer. Both men are very quickly becoming aroused – something about the idea of revenge sex _really_ gets them going, although neither can quite place his finger on why. They don’t waste time trying to, either – there’s plenty of other, much more satisfying locations for fingers to be placed.

 

Approximately two minutes later, Argyle Austero, along with several of his henchmen, returns from his lunch at one of Newport Beach’s finer dining establishments. They’ve just had a rather frustrating encounter with a waiter, who can now almost certainly be on the lookout for a letter in the mail with his name on it. The nearer to the trailer they draw, however, the further the lunch situation is from Argyle’s mind.

 

“Boss,” says one of the goons as they approach the door, “I think somebody’s in your trailer.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Argyle replies. “What in god’s name is that _racket_?”

 

“Sounds like ‘The Final Countdown’ to me, Boss,” another one of the cronies muses.

 

“Played on a loop, Boss,” the first one observes.

 

“So it does,” Argyle replies, cracking his knuckles. This can only mean one thing. “Well, well, well, boys. It seems our friend _Mr. Bluth_ has decided to pay us a visit. Let’s go see what he wants, shall we? _Then_ we’ll decide what to do with him.”

 

The four henchmen laugh among themselves as Argyle reaches for the doorknob.

 

“ _Mr. Bluth_ ,” Argyle begins as he steps through the doorway, “to what do I owe the plea-”

 

His question comes to an abrupt halt mid-word as he observes the scene spread out before him. Glitter – a mixture of Royal Blue and Enchanted Violet, if he has to make an educated guess(and if _anyone_ knows his glitter, it’s Argyle Austero) – covers every surface, from the floor to the wall to the brand new upholstery. There’s an unfamiliar boombox in one corner, and – perhaps most incriminating of all – there are two men furiously making out right on top of his freshly-acquired mahogany desk. Both of the offenders are shirtless, and he spies their missing shirts tossed haphazardly on the floor.

 

“ _Ahem_ ,” he announces, clearing his throat, as the goons filter in behind him. The four exchange glances, but say nothing, waiting for their boss’s cue. Neither man on the desk even bothers to look up, both too absorbed in each other. Argyle, in frustration, begins his infamous tap-dance routine.

 

_That_ draws Gob and Tony’s attention – neither has forgotten the sound of ‘tap dancing on his grave’ – and they immediately break away from each other, eyes wide, both having completely lost sight of where they are and what they came here to do. It’s then that Argyle realizes that the two men are in fact down to only their undergarments, and, as his eyes narrow further, his tapping takes on an angrier tone.

 

“Get ‘em, boys,” he directs, and his goons are on the two magicians in an instant. Barely thirty seconds later, Tony and Gob are restricted to a pair of chairs, a henchman on either side of each of them to prevent their escape. Both are still in only their boxer-briefs and covered in glitter, and Argyle is fairly certain that the only thing in between Mr. Bluth and a full-on panic attack is the firm grasp Mr. Wonder has on his hand.

 

“Boss, should I…?” One of the henchmen asks, gesturing to the magicians’ interlocked fingers. The shorter one is glaring at him, and the taller one is practically trembling in fear.

 

“No, no,” Argyle answers, clearing the remaining glitter from his desk in one fell swoop before seating himself in his chair. “I’m not a _monster_. Let them hold hands. And you-” he points at the goon closest to the corner “-turn that _garbage_ off.”

 

“You got it, Boss,” the henchman replies, stepping away long enough to put a stop to the music.

 

“Much better,” Argyle says.

 

He leans back in his chair, propping his legs up on the desk, and presses his hands together. The stance, combined with the sudden loss of the song in the background, solidifies the tensity of the room. Gob gulps, now beyond certain that this whole revenge plan had been a huge mistake, and Tony squeezes his hand tightly.

 

Argyle clears his throat. “Now, allow me to amend my previous statement. Mr. Bluth, Mr. Wonder-” he turns to the two magicians “-to what do I owe the _pleasure_?”

 

The way he says ‘pleasure’ makes Gob cringe – the man is obviously _not_ pleased, yet his demeanor gives nothing away. His smile is almost sickeningly sweet, and, had Gob not been all too aware of what Argyle had just caught him and Tony about to do, he may even have been fooled himself.

 

“We-” he starts, his voice cracking, then finds himself unable to finish the sentence. He looks to Tony for help.

 

“We brought you something, ‘ _Boss_ ’,” Tony says, accentuating the final word mockingly with his W air quotes, and his one regret is that he had to let go of Gob’s hand for a brief moment in order to do so.

 

Unlike Gob, however, he’s more angry than afraid, and as a result his composure is considerably more intact. He wants to fight these guys, but he’s also a good six-plus inches shorter than every single one of them, and he’s having uncomfortable flashbacks to his high school days of being stuffed into various lockers. In addition to that, being incredibly vain, he wants to avoid any potential damage to his face, so he remains seated. “It’s in my pants pocket.”

 

Argyle glances down at the discarded garment, his distaste evident. “I’ll pass,” he says.

 

“Oh, I _assure_ you,” Tony counters, “you’re gonna wanna see this.”

 

“I _highly_ doubt that,” Argyle replies, crossing his arms.

 

“Wha – but don’t you at least want to know what it is?” Gob asks, shifting in his seat. His erection from earlier is very stubbornly refusing to go away, and this combination of leftover arousal and fear for his life is not one he particularly enjoys.

 

“Judging by the size and shape, I’d surmise it’s a USB drive,” Argyle says coolly. “That sound about right to you, boys?”

 

“Yes sir, Boss,” one of the henchmen says. The other three nod in agreement.

 

“Get a load of Sherlock _Homo_ ,” Tony says sarcastically to Gob, who laughs nervously. “ _Not_ in a homophobic way,” he quickly adds, as all four of Argyle’s goons surround him. One of them has a pipe in his hand, which he’s thumping threateningly against his palm.

 

“Settle down, boys,” Argyle commands, and the four henchmen back off, resuming their prior positions. “I can take a joke.”

 

“Yes, Boss.”

 

“Absolutely, Boss.”

 

“You sure can, Boss.”

 

“Nobody can take a joke as well as you can, Boss.”

 

“Enough with the flattery,” Argyle says, waving his hand. “You’re making me _ill_.” The goons fall silent, and then he continues. “What, pray tell, is on this flash drive, Mr. Wonder?”

 

“It’s our sex tape, guy,” Gob blurts out – this is taking _forever_ , and, in addition to the obvious contributors, being blue-balled is making him extremely uncomfortable. Argyle turns to look at him, eyebrows raised.

 

“Is this true, Mr. Wonder?” he asks Tony.

 

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Tony answers, rolling his eyes. The four henchmen exchange glances.

 

“The two of you,” Argyle inquires, pointing back and forth between the two magicians, “have a sex tape?”

 

Both men nod.

 

“With each other, I’m assuming?” he attempts to confirm, perhaps unnecessarily.

 

“ _Yes_ with each other!” Tony shouts, annoyed, rising to his feet. “Who _else_ would it be with?”

 

“ _Come on_!” Gob joins in, also standing up. Glitter rains down from both of them. “You think the guy – _should_ – the guy, the _two_ guys, the guy in the – should – _$45 boxer briefs_ – the – _you_ – you think – _come on_ – wouldn’t have sex with – _come on_ -”

 

“We made a sex tape on _Cinco de Cuatro_! That’s right, _months_ ago! Before _you_ even caught onto my ‘fake gay’ act! Because, _surprise_ , asshole – I’ve been a _fake_ ‘fake gay’ this entire time!”

 

The fury with which Tony performs his signature W air quotes is almost comical, and Argyle can barely suppress a laugh. His henchmen, meanwhile, have no such self-control – fortunately for them, however, their laughter goes unnoticed by the magicians.

 

“You think the guy in the – the – wouldn’t be in love with the guy with the – _come on_ – you think – should, _should –_ buried in _cement_ , with the – _come on_ – should, should _I_ – you _think_ – fake gay – come _on_!”

 

“What _exactly_ are you trying to say here, gentlemen?” Argyle interrupts, squinting at the pair.

 

“I’m in love with Tony Wonder!” Gob shouts.

 

“I’m in love with Gob Bluth!” Tony yells simultaneously.

 

The two magicians look at each other. “Did you just – _same_!” they say at the same time, both leaning in closer. Their kiss is interrupted by the sound of an exaggerated slow clapping, and Gob and Tony look up to discover, much to their surprise, that the source of it is none other than Argyle Austero.

 

“Bravo, gentlemen, bravo,” he says, smiling in satisfaction. “A round of applause for our magician friends here, shall we, boys?”

 

The four henchmen begin clapping enthusiastically, only to stop moments later when Argyle holds up his hand. Gob and Tony exchange confused glances – this is _not_ what they were expecting, at all.

 

“Okay,” Tony asks Argyle, “what’s happening?”

 

“You’ve said what I needed to hear,” Argyle replies, the smug smile still fixed on his face. Gob turns to look at Argyle’s henchmen, each of whom look almost equally satisfied, which only increases his confusion.

 

Tony’s brow furrows further. “What you needed to… _huh_?”

 

“Oh, Mr. Wonder,” Argyle sighs, shaking his head. “Do you not remember the first time you and I crossed paths? Sit back down, and allow me to jog your memory.”

 

-

 

“Congratulations,” a voice said, bringing Tony back to reality as he finished washing his hands. He looked up at the mirror, then to his right, eventually tracing the sound back to its source.

 

“You talking to me, man?” he asked. _Nothing quite like being chatted up out of the blue by a stranger in a men’s room to snap a guy out of a dreamy haze_ , he thought to himself. As for _why_ he was in a dreamy haze, that part was obvious – Fakeblock money, baby! He was _this close_ to finally remaking The Magic Show. All he had to do was get into this guy’s phone and he’d be home free. It didn’t hurt that Gob Bluth was actually a pretty fun guy to hang out with, too. Out of _all_ the people he could’ve potentially overheard discussing Fakeblock before the show earlier on in the night – he’d really lucked out there. He was genuinely _enjoying_ spending time with Gob, perhaps a little too much, even – certain parts of his anatomy had responded to that mechanical bull ride a few minutes ago in a way he wasn’t expecting. What was it with his dick and forgetting the whole gay thing was just an act? This wasn’t the first erection he’d had to hide.

 

“Obviously,” the stranger scoffed. Tony looked him up and down – the guy appeared to be in his late sixties, tanned, full head of hair. The suit he was wearing toed the line between fashionable and garish in a way that was almost impressive, and were those _taps_ on his shoes? As far as weirdos go, though, this guy seemed tame enough, and Tony was prepared to take anything he had to say with a grain of salt.

 

“I couldn’t help but notice the way you two look at each other,” the man continued. “True love is rare, but you seem to have found it. Congratulations again, my friend. What you have here is very rare – very rare, indeed.”

 

_O_ _kay_ , Tony decided, _that_ was crossing a line. Who the hell did this guy think he was, exactly? You can’t even go on a fake first date with a guy you’ve technically known for years – who accidentally sliced off two of his fingers the first time you met, and who later invited you to his disastrous sham of a wedding for reasons you _still_ don’t understand – anymore without some old dude, in the _bathroom_ of a _bar_ , giving you his two cents on love(that you _didn’t_ ask for and _definitely_ don’t need)… what a _travesty_.

 

“Whatever, man,” Tony said back, rolling his eyes. He leaned in a little closer, about to break the magicians’ code against his better judgment. “Look, just between you and me, I’m not even gay. I’m only with this guy so I can hack into his phone, get his boyfriend’s information, and steal his internet fortune. I’m gonna fake-fall in love with him, and then break his heart. Guess either I’m just a really good actor, or you’re just really full of crap. And I’m actually super high right now, so my money’s on the latter. Adios.”

 

He then turned and casually walked out of the bathroom without bothering to dry his hands, wondering(damn it) why he’d just chosen to share all of that with a complete stranger, and leaving Argyle Austero glaring in his wake. Behind Argyle, several stall doors opened simultaneously, and several lower-ranking members of the gay mafia emerged from within.

 

“He disrespected you, Boss,” said one of them.

 

“He did,” Argyle agreed without turning around. “What’s that one’s name, again?”

 

“Tony Wonder, Boss.”

 

“Tony Wonder,” Argyle repeated, striking a pose for the mirror. “And who’s that man he was with?”

 

“That’d be Gob Bluth, Boss.”

 

“ _Bluth_.” He stood there in contemplation for a moment, letting the familiar last name settle over his tongue, then turned to face his subordinates. “I believe we ought to teach Mr. Wonder and Mr. Bluth a very important lesson, and perhaps get a thing or two out of it for ourselves along the way. What do you say, boys?”

 

-

 

“Wait, so… just – _what_? _Huh_?” Tony asks. “What are you _saying_? You – you set this whole thing up, just to prove me wrong? You _knew_ I wasn’t a ‘fake gay’ the entire time?”

 

“Precisely,” Argyle responds, nodding. “You should have just accepted the compliment.”

 

The mafia boss is smirking still, but Tony no longer wants to punch that smug look off his face – he’s too stunned now to do anything but gawk in wonder( _oh_ , he thinks to himself, _well-played_ ).

 

“What – but _how_?” he sputters. “ _I_ didn’t even know!”

 

Argyle leans back in his chair. “Mr. Wonder, _please_. How do you think I got to be the ringleader of the gay mafia? My gaydar is _impenetrable_. I can clock a deeply closeted repressed homosexual with just the slightest passing glance. Isn’t that right, boys?”

 

“That’s right, Boss.”

 

“So true, Boss.”

 

“The absolute best, Boss.”

 

“Nothing gets past you, Boss.”

 

“Same goes for you, Mr. Bluth,” Argyle continues, holding up his hand, and the goons cease their commendation. “I don’t know who you think _you’re_ fooling.”

 

“B-but I didn’t – I didn’t even _do_ anything!” Gob stutters. He’s almost at a loss for words, nearly incapable of processing this new influx of information. _Nearly_.

 

“Not at first, no,” Argyle agrees, sounding almost sympathetic. “And we would have left you out of it, anyhow, had you not gone on that Christian program and mentioned conversion therapy. As you’ll recall, that’s a _big_ no-no.” He shakes his finger at Gob. “Tsk, tsk.”

 

“But _Branson_ ,” Tony says. “You had me fake my death and move to _Branson_. What the _fuck_ was that for?”

 

“Yeah, guy, what the hell?” Gob adds, the fear he’d felt earlier now having given way to bewilderment and anger.

 

“In all honesty, we thought you’d fess up before it came to that.” Argyle shrugs. “Clearly, we underestimated you.”

 

Tony tilts his head in disbelief. “But the _contract_ -”

 

Argyle waves his hand dismissively. “A potpourri of legal nonsense. Had you read the fine print, you would have known that.”

 

“I didn’t even read the regular print,” Gob admits. He meant to just say it to Tony, but, as evidenced by the laughter now echoing from behind him, it’s clear the whole room heard.

 

“From you, Mr. Bluth, we expected as much,” Argyle replies. “Yours was composed almost entirely of lorem ipsum. Saved us a great deal of time and effort, by the way.”

 

“So-” Tony starts, narrowing his eyes. If the contract was all ‘legal nonsense’, and the entire sequence of events was in fact just a ruse to get him to admit to something he hadn’t even been fully aware of, set off by a chance encounter in the men’s room at a bar-

 

“Correct,” Argyle answers, as though reading his mind. “You weren’t legally obligated to abide by any of it. You chose to do so of your own free will. At least, that’s how _we_ view it, and that’s _certainly_ how it’ll be viewed in the eyes of the law. I’d advise against pursuing legal action here, Mr. Wonder, unless you’d like to make a fool of yourself in front of the entire world.”

 

“But what about the _mannequin_?” Gob whines. “You just let me think that that was – that that was-” _Tony’s body_ , he finishes internally, but there’s a lump in his throat that’s preventing him from saying it out loud. To his absolute horror, he finds himself blinking back tears.

 

Argyle shakes his head. “Again, Mr. Bluth, _conversion therapy_? _Honestly_. That’s an even tackier look than this shirt you’ve left here on my floor. And you came to that conclusion on your own, if you’ll remember. Who was I to correct a man who’s _clearly_ so sure of himself?”

 

“ _Bitch_ ,” Tony spits, hoping to channel all of his rage and frustration into a single word. Unfortunately, it doesn’t produce quite the desired effect.

 

“Why thank you,” Argyle responds, beaming.

 

“I don’t think he meant it as a compliment, Boss,” one of the henchmen not-so-helpfully chimes in.

 

Argyle facepalms. “Out with you,” he insists, motioning toward the door. “Out, out, _out_. Go sit in the car and think about what you’ve done.”

 

“Yes sir, Boss,” the guy replies sheepishly, turning around and exiting the trailer.

 

Tony and Gob watch him leave, as do the three remaining henchmen. Gob laughs – it feels good not being the dumbest guy in the room for once. Were he even the slightest bit more self-aware, he would have realized what the dumbest guy leaving the room meant for him in terms of that, but, fortunately for him, the thought doesn’t even cross his mind.

 

“Now,” Argyle says, once the two magicians return their focus to him, “where were we? Any more questions?”

 

“ _Why_?” Gob asks. He’s not on the verge of tears anymore, but he doesn’t understand why any of this needed to happen. “ _Why_ would you – would you – _should_ – _why_?”

 

“Is it not _obvious_?” Argyle asks in response, setting his chin in his hands. “We’re the _gay_ mafia, gentlemen. We _live_ for drama. Isn’t that right, boys?”

 

“Sure is, Boss!”

 

“You tell ‘em, Boss!”

 

“ _Absolutely_ right, Boss!”

 

“And we do get bored of theater occasionally, so we like to create our own,” Argyle continues.

 

“You can’t just play with people’s lives like that!” Tony protests, offended. Gob nods in agreement.

 

“Can’t I?” Argyle responds. “Besides, I don’t see why you’re complaining. It all worked out for you two in the end, did it not? You certainly _seem_ to be happy together, judging by the rush you were in to fornicate upon my _mahogany_ desk.”

 

“I-” Tony starts, but the words die out even before they form as he realizes he actually can’t argue with that.

 

“Yeah, I _guess_ that’s true,” Gob acknowledges.

 

“So there you have it!” Argyle exclaims triumphantly. “I was right; you were wrong. You should be _thanking_ me.”

 

“Yeah, don’t hold your breath on that,” Tony mutters.

 

Several awkward seconds pass by in silence as Tony and Gob attempt to digest everything that just happened.

 

“Hey, have you ever met my mom?” Gob asks suddenly, tilting his head. “You kind of remind me of her.”

 

Argyle’s face sours – he _has_ , of course, met Lucille Bluth, and he doesn’t particularly appreciate the comparison. Instead of answering, however, he strikes another dramatic pose. “That’s enough chit-chat,” he declares, clapping his hands together. “Now, go on, collect your belongings and be gone, before I change my mind and have you two clean up all this glitter. I should do it, too. I really should.”

 

“Yeah, you should, Boss,” one of the henchmen agrees.

 

“However, I _do_ have mercy,” Argyle continues, narrowing his eyes.

 

“You sure do, Boss,” the henchman quickly adds.

 

Gob and Tony, meanwhile, don’t need to be told twice. Both magicians are already on their feet, hastily scooping up their clothes. Gob is in such a rush to get out of there that he nearly forgets his boombox, and Tony has to double back for it. They’re mere inches from the door, mere inches from _freedom_ , when Argyle opens his mouth one final time.

 

“Not so fast, gentlemen,” he says, and the duo turn to look at him. “I expect an invite to the wedding.” Gob and Tony freeze – they haven’t discussed marriage, although they’ve both thought about it extensively, and the fact that it’s now been mentioned for the first time, by a man who’s essentially just admitted to blackmailing them for the thrill of it, is enough to catch both magicians completely off guard.

 

“Th-the wedding?” Gob stutters, blushing.

 

“Are you _threatening_ us again?” Tony asks, also slightly pink in the face.

 

“Too soon?” Argyle smirks. With that, he waves his hand again, and his henchmen step forward, ready to escort Gob and Tony out the door if need be. Taking the hint, the two magicians exit the trailer in a hurry, not slowing down until they’re back in the car.

 

-

 

It’s not until they’re back home that they finally break their silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, necessarily, although certainly an awkward one. They both spent the entire car ride thinking about marriage, and none of it thinking about how their master revenge plan wound up being, once again, a spectacular failure. Quite frankly, they’re both more insulted by the fact that a third party was the first to bring up the topic than they are that none of what happened today went according to plan, or even that Argyle _knew_ the whole time that they weren’t fake gays. Of course, neither can quite figure out how to put this into words, so instead they sit there saying nothing.

 

“When we get married,” Gob says finally(and neither he nor Tony realizes that he said _when_ , not _if_ , so neither stops to consider what that means), “we are _not_ inviting _him_.”

 

“Same,” Tony replies, and that settles it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to the arrested development writers for never specifying how the gay mafia caught on to tony in the first place, thus enabling me to write this and still call it canon compliant lmao. 
> 
> also the remaining three chapters will focus on maeby, lindsay & sally again, & george michael, in that order. don't know when i'll get the chance to actually write them but i thought i'd go ahead and say it.


	6. Maeby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took two months to get done lmao. there were two separate times i started it, wrote about 1000 words, and then realized i didn't like the tone i'd set for it & deleted the whole thing. i also attempted to write the next chapter first instead, wrote like 3k of that, then decided i didn't like where that was going either & again trashed the entire thing.
> 
> so like, third time's the charm i guess. this chapter probably differs from the tone of the show the most because i had to figure out the dynamic between two characters who rarely interact & then also try to keep it in character while keeping the mood i was going for with the chapter. it's not exactly how i envisioned it but i think this is as close as i'm gonna get to what i had in mind. also there's a very high chance that i may rewrite parts of this chapter later. so yeah.

Maeby is _trying_ , for once in her life. And yeah, okay, granted, she’s not _entirely_ sure _what_ she’s trying to do, but that’s not the point. The point is, she’s _trying_. It’s the effort that counts. That’s what the teachers all used to say, anyway, when they’d chastise her for not putting any in.

 

But then again, what’s the point of putting effort in? School doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. At least, she _used_ to feel that way, back before she was 24 with no high school diploma. How come nobody ever told her this shit would be important someday? Well, okay, to be fair, a lot of people _did_ – but honestly, who can fault her for not listening when they made it sound so _boring_?

 

A high school diploma is out of the question now, anyway – she’s _done_ with pretending to be a teenager. Having now faked her age on both ends of the spectrum, she can say with confidence that there’s an obvious superior choice here. Pretending to be a senior citizen, _that’s_ where it’s at. You don’t have to worry about fake IDs or whether you look too old to be too young to get into the bars. You get all the perks of retirement and none of the negatives. The neighbors are great; they die all the time on their own, so you get to be rid of them without having to kill them yourself and risking jail time like _some people_ in the family. Their eyesight is terrible, so even if they catch you without makeup on they don’t suspect a thing. You can steal all their stuff right out from under their noses and they don’t even miss it.

 

Of course, that’s all over with now too, because all good things blow up in your face eventually. In this case, her father had made sure of that. And that map Stan Sitwell had left in that drawer back at Lucille 2’s place had _also_ turned out to be a total bust. Old people might move slow, but _apparently_ , as she’d been much less than thrilled to discover, their real estate market doesn’t. Plus, she’d already killed off Buttons, so what’s the point anymore? Half the fun was in the persona, and it’s just not the same without it.

 

So now she’s back in the model home, living with her parents for the first time in years and trying not to think about how she wound up in Sudden Valley after all. The three of them are each in separate bedrooms, kind of like how it was back in Boston half a lifetime ago. This time, at least, Maeby gets the master. Lindsay has the room with the twin beds, and Tobias has the bedroom that used to be Maeby and George Michael’s. She spends far too much of her time now(several minutes every day, often while trying to sleep) lying on that master bed and staring at the ceiling, contemplating life.

 

It’s _ridiculous_ , contemplating life. It’s like George Michael rubbed off on her somehow – which is _impossible_ , because all they did was make out for a few seconds. _Not_ her finest moment, she’d decided afterward – she _knew_ full well it was incest and she did it anyway. That was kind of like a new low for her. Not like rock-bottom low, but like the type of low where you’re totally self-aware enough to realize this _could_ be the beginning of a downward spiral if you’re not careful. Maybe, on some level, she _had_ to kiss him again, just to confirm that that really _isn’t_ who she wants to be. George Michael’s great and everything, but they have too much DNA in common.

 

Too much of a lot of things in common, it turns out, because on top of everything else she’s kind-of-sort-of dating his ex-girlfriend now. That had just sort of _happened_ out of nowhere. Completely unexpected, but surprisingly, completely _not_ unpleasant. It’s weird for her(good weird, and _weird_ weird, but not bad weird), being in a kind-of-sort-of relationship that’s not based on age-related lies(Perfecto Telles, Stan Sitwell), or a distraction from other feelings(Steve Holt), and that hasn’t been referred to by the other person as “star-crossed cousins” on more than one uncomfortable occasion(George Michael, _obviously_ ).

 

That’s the other shocking part, how much she actually _enjoys_ the normalcy in that aspect of her life. Starting a relationship with someone after catching up at a bar, how lame is _that_? There’s no _benefit_ to kind-of-sort-of dating Rebel Alley, aside from companionship anyway. Nothing that she’s trying to _gain_. And yet she still _enjoys_ it – almost _cherishes_ it, even. She can’t remember the last time she went this long without running some sort of scheme, and it’s starting to mess with her head.

 

“How do you tell if you have a concussion?” she asks out loud. That _has_ to be it, she’s decided. She’s lounging on Rebel’s bed currently, her head hanging upside down over the edge, while they try to figure out where they’re going tonight.

 

Rebel steps out of the walk-in closet, her dress zipped halfway up. “Why, do you think you have one?”

 

Maeby shrugs. “Just curious.”

 

“I think there’d be a lump on your head,” Rebel replies, stepping back out of view. “But I’m not a doctor; I just played one on… wait, no, I played the lady cop.” She pokes her head out of the closet again, shrugging. “Yeah, I have no idea.”

 

Maeby feels her head for lumps, deciding the suggestion is better than just lying there doing nothing. The fact that Rebel isn’t a doctor is irrelevant – Maeby’s father is _technically_ a doctor, and he’s the _last_ person on earth she’d _ever_ ask for medical advice. Honestly, she’d rather drop dead than seek help from _him_ – and, knowing Tobias Funke’s track record, there’s a fairly decent chance of that happening _anyway_ were she to go down that route. She can’t find anything, though. Her head feels normal. Ugh, _normal_.

 

“Huh,” she says, sitting up.

 

“Oh, I know,” Rebel calls out from inside the closet. “I saw a stunt double get a concussion once. He said everything smelled like burnt toast.” She steps back out, sporting a different dress now. “Do you smell burnt toast?”

 

“I smell burnt strawberries,” Maeby says, gesturing to the perfume bottle on the nightstand. “With a _hint_ of moldy roses.”

 

Rebel rolls her eyes as she walks over to the bed. “Ugh, I _know_. That stuff is _way_ too strong. I wish they would’ve let me smell it before I agreed to the sponsorship. And I’ve still gotta shoot three more commercials, too. At least people are buying it.”

 

“Yeah, nice to know there’s a market for Eau de _Barf_ um,” Maeby replies sarcastically. _Maybe I could get in on that_ , she thinks to herself, but the motivation just isn’t there. _Why isn’t it there_?

 

Rebel bursts out laughing. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

 

“Probably just the concussion,” Maeby jokes, motioning to her head, and Rebel laughs again. She’s got kind of an odd laugh, but Maeby enjoys hearing it. That’s all she really has left these days, the ability to make people laugh. Ugh, maybe she really _is_ turning into her father.

 

“You know what, though,” Rebel says, sitting down next to Maeby on the bed, “that gives me an idea. I _think_ I know where we can go tonight.”

 

Maeby grins.

 

-

 

Sneaking into a section of a hospital that’s being rented out for production on some medical drama( _would this be considered breaking and entering_? _that’s kind of a tricky gray area_ , Maeby decides) is both a typical and atypical way to spend a Saturday night with Rebel. Atypical in the sense that it’s never happened before, but typical in the sense that their dates always tend to be somewhat… _unconventional_. They’d once stolen a golf cart and driven it halfway across Los Angeles before being pulled over – not even for violating traffic laws, but because apparently the cop who noticed them just-so-happened to be a huge fan of Dangerous Cousins. The closest thing to a ‘normal’ date had been that night they went to the Gothic Castle – but does it _really_ count as ‘normal’ when part of the show involves watching your uncle strip down to almost nothing before engaging in a tongue-heavy makeout session with the other magician? It had been _entertaining_ , if nothing else, especially Gob’s reaction when she caught up with him after the show.

 

“Uncle Gob!” she’d yelled, weaving her way through the crowd, hand in hand with Rebel so the two of them wouldn’t get separated. He’d been making out with the other magician again, but he whirled around immediately when she spoke, practically jumping out of his skin, still covered in glitter and lipstick kisses and dressed in only a too-tight Speedo. He’d nearly lost his footing, too, saved only by the fact that his obvious boyfriend was there to keep him steady.

 

“ _Maeby_?” he’d asked, startled and considerably embarrassed, after he regained his composure. “Wha – what are _you_ doing here?”

 

“What are _you_ doing here?” she’d shot back immediately, unphased. “I thought you got banned from this place.”

 

“Yeah, well, you thought _wrong_ ,” he’d replied. “I mean, I _did_ get banned, for like a decade or something, but Tony got me back in. You know my… um… friend-rival, Tony Wonder?”

 

“Interesting way of saying ‘lover’,” Maeby had started to say, but Tony Wonder had drowned her out.

 

“Did somebody say _wonder_?” he’d yelled, tossing a fistful of glitter in the air as Gob enthusiastically gestured toward him.

 

“Isn’t he just the _greatest_?” Gob had gushed, grabbing Tony tightly by the shoulders as if to show him off. “I _never_ get tired of that!”

 

“Oh my god, you really _do_ know him,” Rebel had remarked to Maeby.

 

“Told you,” Maeby had replied, smirking.

 

“Anyway,” Gob had continued, still grinning like the idiot he is and unable to contain his excitement, “we’re just kind of testing this whole performance thing out. You know, seeing how it goes. If it works, or whatever. We’ve been planning this for _months_. A-and I think it went really well. I mean, _look_ at this _crowd_!”

 

“Yeah,” Tony had chimed in, “not too bad for opening night.”

 

“We’re doing this again tomorrow,” Gob had added, beaming. “And then, if it all goes well, we might take the show on the road in a few months. I’m so _excited_! Don’t – don’t tell anybody though. I mean, if you have friends, you can tell _them_ , but don’t tell the family. They might get the wrong idea. They might think I’m – _you know_ -”

 

“Cool,” Maeby had replied, even though ‘cool’ was far from the right descriptor – as much as she hated to admit it, her uncle’s happiness was infectious. “I’m just here on a date. This is Rebel.”

 

“Hey,” Rebel had said, waving to the magicians. “I’m Rebel Alley.”

 

“Oh yeah, from those anti-texting commercials,” Tony had observed. “And I saw you in that movie, the one where you asked, ‘Are we the same?’ I loved that movie.”

 

“ _We’re_ the same,” Gob had interjected as Maeby looked on in amusement. “Me and Tony.”

 

“Yeah, my dad made me do those commercials,” Rebel had replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m actually very _pro_ -texting in real life.”

 

“Not while driving, though, right?” Tony had asked, frowning, then continued without waiting for an answer, apparently having decided he didn’t actually care. “So how’d you like the show?”

 

“Oh, it was great,” Rebel had responded. “Very homoerotic, and also super hilarious. It was perfect. The lipstick was a really nice touch.”

 

Tony had frowned again, seemingly focused on only one word of Rebel’s review. “Okay, well, it wasn’t supposed to be _comedic_ , but-”

 

“Really? That’s weird,” Rebel had replied. “You should embrace the whole comedy thing. It totally works for you two. I loved how you guys kept, like, misplacing props and then changing the script to work around it. Was that on purpose?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, that was all part of the act,” Tony had said, waving his hand, despite how obviously it hadn’t been. “Glad it could make an impact on you.”

 

“Wait a second,” Gob had interrupted then, so deep in thought that he’d missed the last few bits of conversation. “ _Rebel Alley_. Where do I know that name from?”

 

“Okay,” Maeby had said to Rebel, “let’s get out of here before he remembers.”

 

They’d walked off at that point, leaving Gob still sifting through his limited memories for the answer Rebel didn’t particularly want to discuss. Maeby wasn’t sure if he ever found it, but he _did_ text her later that night asking who she was on a date with. She’d debated whether or not to respond to such a stupid question, then decided a simple ‘rebel alley. i’m bi, uncle gob’ would suffice. He’d answered back several minutes later with an ‘Oh cool I’m straight but I support you’ followed by several emojis that made absolutely no sense with or without context, and she’d rolled her eyes back so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if that had made the concussion worse. Then he’d sent ‘Just kidding I’m gay’ followed by more random emojis, and she’d _thought_ that would be the end of it until he’d followed it with ‘Haha just kidding when I said I was kidding I’m straight’, apparently in a panic(she could tell by the lack of emojis), and she’d rolled her eyes again. After several more texts from him along those same lines, she’d decided to block his number. Gay Gob is funny, alright, but fake-straight Gob is a pain in the ass.

 

That had been the week before last week, so two weeks ago. _How many Saturday night dates with Rebel have I been on_? Maeby thinks to herself. She can think of at least fifteen off the top of her head, and there had been several Saturdays when Rebel was out of town and they hadn’t been able to see each other. _How long has this been going on_? Fifteen weeks, that’s like six months. Holy _shit_. Six months without running _any_ scams – she really _must_ have a concussion.

 

“So, this _concussion_ of yours,” Rebel says, smirking, once they’re on the freeway(she’d gotten her driver’s license revoked again, so they’re being driven by her chauffeur – which, _honestly_ , Maeby thinks, is _the_ way to get around). “How do you think you got it?”

 

Maeby thinks for a moment. “Whiplash, probably. Can you get a concussion from whiplash?”

 

Rebel shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out.”

 

They don’t need to discuss what ‘whiplash’ Maeby’s referring to – it’s obvious; her relationship with her mother. Recently it’s gone from one extreme to the other, like when you go deep-sea diving and then get on a plane the same day. The drastic change in air pressure is too difficult for the human body to withstand, and your chest caves in while your lungs collapse and you die choking on your own blood. At least, she _thinks_ that’s what George Michael said would happen – all she’d asked was if he wanted to go swimming with her. She hadn’t needed an _entire lecture_ about the perils of scuba diving, but at least it came in handy when she wanted to put words to her feelings.

 

Ugh, _feelings_. What’s the point in having those? All they do is make you feel vulnerable. They’re like a disease. They’re fine in small doses(heart-switch off, heart-switch on), but the longer you’re exposed the deadlier it gets, and the harder it is to go back to not feeling. Maeby doesn’t like the term ‘repression’ – like, _yes_ , she shoves emotions down(literally _everyone_ does it. or if they don’t, they _should_ ), but that doesn’t mean she’s _repressing_ anything. That makes it sound _clinical_ , like there’s something _wrong_ with her. That sounds like a note from the desk of Dr. Tobias Funke.

 

And Maeby’s _fine_. She just has a concussion.

 

-

 

Concussion notwithstanding, there are a lot of things Maeby and Rebel have in common, which certainly explains why they’d clicked so well after their initial reunion. They both have names that are also words that tend to come up in casual conversation, they both went through teenage rebellious phases that didn’t end with their teenage years, and they’ve both been involved in show business since childhood, Rebel because of her famous father and Maeby because she’d conned her way into a job on a studio lot at 15.

 

And they’ve both kissed George Michael Bluth, albeit under vastly different circumstances – Rebel had thought she was kissing a tech entrepreneur named George Maharis, and Maeby had known all too well she was kissing her cousin. The truth about that had _kind of_ come out one night when they were both three sheets to the wind – when Maeby Funke plays Truth or Dare, she plays to _win_. Rebel, for her part, had taken the news as well as anyone could. It had been a little awkward in the morning, naturally, but they’d laughed it off over a brunch that Rebel _insisted_ was the ultimate hangover cure. Besides, kissing your cousin is far from the most fucked up thing that’s happened in the Bluth family.

 

And Rebel is no prude herself, thank _god_. She has so many crazy sex stories that, at first, Maeby felt almost _embarrassingly_ inexperienced in comparison. She wasn’t a _virgin_ or anything, obviously, but getting laid had never been her top priority. She’d never had sex with a father-son duo separately in the same night( _to be fair_ , Rebel had said, _I thought they were just two random guys until you told me_ ), and she’d certainly never gotten pregnant in a LEM(she hasn’t met Rebel’s son yet, and the idea kind of scares her, but the fact that he was named after where he was conceived is objectively hilarious). And most of her sexual partners had been… well, they’d been hot garbage, all of them, and usually not even that hot. Rebel is different, in _every_ way.

 

That little trip down memory lane, it turns out, leads Maeby straight to the hospital she and Rebel are ‘borrowing’ for tonight’s adventure.

 

“Oh my god, the door’s not even locked,” Rebel says after trying the handle. “I thought for sure my dad would’ve splurged on security after renting out an _entire hospital_.”

 

“So much for my lock picking kit,” Maeby replies, placing the bobby pin back in her hair as they step through the doorway.

 

Most of the lights inside the hospital are turned off, and the few that aren’t are dimmed down low, so she has to use her phone flashlight to read the signs on the wall. Rebel leads the way, shining her own phone flashlight down each hallway they pass. It’s an interesting experience, traveling through a dark hospital devoid of patients. Maeby’s only half-listening as Rebel calls out their surroundings.

 

“Aha!” Rebel exclaims suddenly, stopping in her tracks. “ _Imaging_. That’s where we need to be, right? That’s where they keep the MRIs?”

 

Maeby shrugs, but goes along with it, following Rebel down the hospital wing in question. For all the time she’s spent visiting relatives in hospitals, she’s still relatively clueless about how they actually work. She has to admit, though, the atmosphere of an empty dark one at night really is intriguing. If the Gangie franchise hadn’t fizzled out, this would be the perfect setting for a new movie. It could maybe be a small-town hospital in the middle of a power outage. That would _totally_ have the potential to scare the literal shit out of some teenagers.

 

Damn it, why is she even thinking about this? Her movie producer career is _dead_. That part of her life is _over_. On some level, it feels like _every_ part of her life is over – except _she’s_ not dead, and she has no desire to be either. What the hell are you supposed to do when you’ve spent your whole life living like fifteen different lies at any given time and it all suddenly crashes to a halt? Just tell the truth? When has _that_ ever worked out for anybody?

 

They’re standing in a room now with a metal tube in the center, and the letters on the wall spell out three long and boring words that Maeby doesn’t bother reading – why bother actually taking the time to read out each word in its entirety when the first letters tell you all you need to know? Everybody knows what MRI stands for.

 

“Okay,” Rebel says, “enough of this. Maeby, what’s wrong?”

 

“ _Huh_?”

 

Somehow the question catches her completely off guard. Tonight’s supposed to be about sarcastic one-liners and trespassing in hospitals and an absurd half-ironic roleplay about a concussion patient/MRI tech romance that will ideally lead to having sex with Rebel Alley in an MRI tube(like a bad porno, except not on film. the fact that it’s _not_ sexy is what makes it sexy). It’s not supposed to be about… _that_.

 

“You’ve been acting weird all night. I can tell something’s bothering you.”

 

Maeby taps her head. “Uh, _yeah_ , that’d be the concussion.”

 

“Come on, Maeby. Drop the act. You don’t have a concussion,” Rebel counters, sitting down on the edge of the MRI cot. She doesn’t sound accusatory, but… _concerned_? That’s something Maeby’s still getting used to. God, feelings _suck_.

 

There’s a long pause before Maeby speaks again.

 

“No,” she eventually acknowledges.

 

“Come on,” Rebel insists, motioning to the empty spot beside her. “Sit down and talk to me.”

 

Maeby shrugs, then sits down, feeling uncomfortably _open_ even though she hasn’t said anything yet. She feels like she’s in that part of some corny movie where the main character has one of those bullshit stereotypical manufactured ‘eye-opening conversations’ that set the course for the second half of the flick. She would know, too; she spent her teenage years cranking out what felt like _thousands_ of reiterations of that drivel.

 

Rebel rests her head on Maeby’s shoulder, and Maeby wonders if all of those individual cut-rate movie protagonists felt like this during their big scenes( _what did they call it again_? character growth? _development_?), like they _weren’t_ just another semi-relatable yet ultimately disposable, totally exchangeable cog in the money-grabbing death machine otherwise known as the entertainment industry – like this could actually _mean_ something somehow, like maybe everything _isn’t_ pointless.

 

She remembers that they’ve technically just broken into a hospital(she could get _arrested_ for this, she can hear George Michael’s voice inside her head reminding her), and she can’t help but laugh a little on the inside – who else but Rebel would suggest this for a _date_? It’s perfect. _Oh, what the hell_ , she decides, _I might as well just say it_. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

 

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she admits, and it’s almost like – is that feeling _relief_? – that she’s finally said it out loud.

 

Rebel lifts her head up. “And that bothers you?” she asks – not to disagree, just to confirm.

 

“Yeah,” Maeby replies. There’s more, but she doesn’t say it. There’s no need to.

 

“I totally get that.”

 

“Yeah,” Maeby says again, feeling like a broken record, or maybe just broken. Rebel’s head is back on her shoulder, oddly comforting in this moment of weakness.

 

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

 

Maeby thinks for a moment, about life and what’s even the point. _Maybe there’s not one_ , she realizes. Maybe you just spend your whole childhood trying to disappoint your parents enough that they’ll finally pay attention to you, and suddenly your mother does some soul searching or whatever and wants to be in your life now and you realize that planning every major life decision around ways to make your parents care was a huge mistake. Maybe you never finish high school, and instead you buy a counterfeit diploma off a guy your meth teeth guy recommended, only for it to look fake as _shit_ and the guy doesn’t do refunds so you’re pretty much screwed and stuck with the damn thing, and you realize you probably should’ve figured out your meth teeth guy was a total dud way back when he was over two hours late getting you your meth teeth that one time. Maybe _that’s_ the point of life, being let down by your meth teeth guy.

 

“I think I just needed to say it out loud,” she says finally, turning to look at Rebel.

 

“That’s fair,” Rebel replies, looking back up at Maeby. For a few seconds there’s silence, and then she continues. “And listen, babe, if you ever _do_ want to talk about it, I’ll be here.”

 

“Cool,” Maeby says. The concussion is gone – maybe not forever, but for _now_ at least, and Maeby much prefers living in the moment to whatever it is George Michael does that makes him worry all the time.

 

“Someday,” she says after a moment(maybe even someday _soon_ , but she doesn’t say _that_ part), “I might take you up on that offer.”

 

“Yeah, whenever you’re ready,” Rebel agrees, and then her demeanor shifts back to the one Maeby had been hoping for. “In the meantime, speaking of _offers_ , I’ve got one you can’t refuse.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Maeby asks, smirking, one eyebrow raised. _Finally_ , the night’s back on track.

 

“Oh _yeah_ ,” Rebel repeats, smirking right back. “Ever done it in an MRI machine?”

 

As it turns out, though, neither has Rebel, so they run into several issues right off the bat. There’s _really_ not a lot of space inside those MRI tubes, and the cot thing isn’t exactly comfortable. It also very clearly was not designed to fit more than a single person at a time, so there’s a lot of awkward repositioning and body parts being smacked on hard surfaces accidentally. The whole ‘starting out fully clothed and then removing garments one by one while furiously making out’ thing is impossible to do while inside the tube, which is a lesson they’ve found out the hard way, so they wind up having to climb all the way back out of the damn thing to get each other’s clothes off.

 

That’s where Maeby is, half-undressed and feeling halfway emotionally vulnerable(this is what she gets for _trying_ ), when her phone rings. She grabs it immediately, fully intending to just shut it off, but the caller ID catches her attention.

 

“What the hell?” she says out loud.

 

“Who is it?” Rebel asks from behind her.

 

“My grandmother. She _never_ calls me.”

 

“You should take it,” Rebel says. “Could be something important.”

 

Maeby _highly_ doubts that, but she does so anyway. “Gangie?” she asks into the phone.

 

Lucille doesn’t offer any greeting in return. “Your grandfather’s dead. I need you to plan the funeral.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO yes i have started writing an actual sequel to my first fic(since, again, this one's more of a prequel/companion piece). yes i did post it already and then panic and delete it 26 hours later. 
> 
> i'll put it back up soon i promise, either when i finish this fic or when i've written a little more of that one(or at least reviewed what i wrote a few more times). i just didn't like the idea of not being able to go back and edit in additional information as i continue writing + i usually spend a lot more time re-reading and editing than i did there & i felt like i rushed into posting it/parts of it could've been made smoother.
> 
> so yeah, apologies to anyone who happened to see that and wanted to read it.


	7. Lindsay & Sally, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok first off obligatory apology that i took FOREVER to write this chapter. when i started writing the third fic in this series i kind of got really wrapped up in that one and i guess forgot that i have to actually WRITE the rest of this one in order for it to exist. i've had it all planned out in my head for months so really i have no excuse. but on the bright side it did turn out essentially exactly how i envisioned it, so there's that at least.
> 
> anyway chronologically this chapter takes place prior to chapter 6 and after chapter 5, which may or may not be totally obvious just from context. i like kind of jumping around with the timeline from chapter to chapter, but if you wanted to read them in chronological order it goes 2, 1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 6, 8. i thought i should probably mention that at some point.
> 
> ALSO i did go back just now and revamp chapter 6 so that it flows better, because something about it had been bugging me ever since i posted it. rereading it is probably unnecessary, because i didn't really change that much, but yeah. just thought i'd throw that out there. i also tweaked chapters 1-3 a TINY bit, because i reread them and i thought, 'oh, you know what, i could add more words here'. i only mention that for the sake of posterity, because literally all i did was add a few words and it's honestly probably not even noticeable. i'll probably do the same thing with chapters 4 and 5 over the next few days(chapter 4 i MIGHT rewrite slightly like i did with chapter 6, and with chapter 5 there's really only like one sentence that i might rephrase), so if the wordcount increases slightly that's why.

Change, as it turns out, is a _hell_ of a lot harder than Lindsay had anticipated – at least when it comes to her feelings(or more accurately, lack thereof) for Tobias. As it turns out, you just really, truly _cannot_ force something that isn’t there. Lindsay can’t, anyway, and she’s always liked to think of herself as someone who’s good at forcing things. So instead she avoids him. That’s easy enough.

 

She’s a _working woman_ now, anyway. The breadwinner of the family. Well, the family that lives in the model home, anyway, which, granted, is really just herself and Maeby and Tobias, since Lucille has the penthouse and the beach cottage, and George, as far as she can tell, is out of the family for real. Buster, of course, lives in jail now, and Michael fucked off to Phoenix and took his son with him. There’s a part of her that wishes he would’ve waited _five lousy minutes_ back at the wall unveiling for her to take off the burka, because maybe then he would’ve stayed and she could totally rub it in his face how she’s actually making a difference in the world now. Oh yeah, and then there’s Gob.

 

“Gob lives with Tony, right?” she asks Sally, who nods. She realizes slightly too late that it’s an odd way to greet her superior(her _work_ superior – in _life_ they’re totally equals) first thing in the morning, but she brushes it off. It’s almost weird how _casual_ they can be with each other now.

 

“Oh yeah. They practically moved in together the second he came back from Branson.” Sally rolls her eyes, then pauses. “Good morning to you too, by the way. Why do you ask?”

 

Lindsay shrugs as she sits down opposite Sally. “No reason. I was just thinking about them.”

 

Sally nods a second time, then purses her lips. “Because of the sex tape?”

 

“Oh, god, don’t remind me,” Lindsay shudders, cringing. “You know, Tobias tried to show me that last night.”

 

Sally smirks. “That doesn’t surprise me. How much of it did you see?”

 

“Not a lot,” Lindsay answers. “I realized what it was almost immediately, thank _god_. Thanks for the heads up, by the way.”

 

“No problem,” Sally replies, still smirking. “When a sex tape gets posted to the home page of a rival housing company’s website, and said sex tape stars both the head of the aforementioned rival housing company _and_ the head of my family’s housing company, it is very much my business. Talk about a PR _nightmare_. I swear to god, if this winds up affecting me in the polls…” she trails off, shaking her head. It hasn’t _yet_ , of course, but it’s still much too early to rule out the possibility completely.

 

“How did that even happen, anyway?” Lindsay asks. “I mean, Gob’s kind of an idiot with technology, and kind of an idiot in general, but _still_.”

 

Sally rolls her eyes. “According to Tony, they meant to upload it privately for, and I quote, ‘future reference’, which means exactly what you think it means. Apparently they had it on a thumb drive, but they didn’t want to have to deal with the thumb drive every single time they wanted to watch it – to which I said, ‘ _Jesus Christ, Tony, how many times were you planning on watching it?_ ’ – and they might have been, another direct quote, ‘slightly distracted’ by the _dance routine_ they were planning for when they ‘exacted their revenge’ on the gay mafia.”

 

Lindsay blinks several times in rapid succession. “For when they did _what_? The _gay mafia_? That’s _real_? Oh my god, I thought Tobias made that up.”

 

Sally nods, amused. “Yeah, no, they’re very real. And according to Tony, he’s no longer on the hook with them – plus something about never actually being on the hook in the first place – so apparently now he can go back to doing his whole ‘gay magician’ act-”

 

“Which isn’t an act,” Lindsay interjects, proud of herself for being so in-the-loop about this.

 

“Exactly.” Sally rolls her eyes again. “And it never was, either. Took him long enough to figure that out.”

 

“Yeah,” Lindsay says.

 

Sally stares at her for a moment, feeling the last traces of their former rivalry flaring up somewhere inside her. It’s been months since they started working together, and they get along so well – surprisingly well, except it’s not _really_ so much of a surprise when you stop to consider how similar they are. Which Sally has, many times, much like she’s now considering whether or not Lindsay was _trying_ to insult her with that little ‘yeah’ comment just now. Was it _meant_ to be a jab at her ill-fated ‘relationship’ with Tony? _No_ , she decides, _surely not_. Lindsay wouldn’t do that. Not when _she’s_ still in a relationship with… _yeah_. She clears her throat. Back to the magician sex tape. That’s always a super fun topic.

 

“Good thing the Austero-Bluth company website gets so little traffic, you know? It took almost a _week_ before anybody noticed it. Of course, I still had to pay off the news so they wouldn’t break the story, and god only knows how many times it’s been downloaded and posted elsewhere, but…” she trails off, and Lindsay nods.

 

“Did _you_ watch it?” she asks.

 

Sally considers lying, but ultimately decides to go with the truth. “Unfortunately, I did.”

 

Lindsay looks incredulous. “The whole thing?”

 

Sally sucks in through her teeth. She _had_ watched the entirety of the sex tape, as a matter of fact, and she’s still not entirely sure what exactly had compelled her to sit there and willingly observe such a thing. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? Some strange desire to see how well Tony’s retelling of events matched up with reality? Which, for what it’s worth, was near-exactly. He _really_ hadn’t been kidding when he said he and Gob were both super into it. She has to admit, those two were made for each other.

 

That’s not the answer she’ll give Lindsay if ‘why’ is her next question, though. She’s planning to go with the whole ‘I like to stay on top of scandals’ excuse.

 

“Yeah. It was… _yeah_.”

 

Now Lindsay looks intrigued. “What happened?”

 

Sally tilts her head. That wasn’t _quite_ the reaction she was expecting. “Well, it _is_ a _sex_ tape. Clue’s in the name.”

 

Lindsay scoffs. “Okay, yeah, _obviously_ , but… _details_? Was there… you know… _penetration_?”

 

Sally raises her eyebrows, as best as she can, praying to a god she’s never believed in that they don’t fall off from the effort. “ _Yes_ , Lindsay. There was penetration.”

 

“Who was penetrated?” Lindsay blurts out, sounding _way_ too enthusiastic about the topic. “Was it Gob?”

 

“Oh my god, really?” Sally asks, fighting back a laugh, and Lindsay shrugs. “Yeah, it was your brother. Why don’t you just watch the stupid sex tape yourself since you’re so curious?”

 

“That’s disgusting,” Lindsay retorts, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t want to see my brother naked.”

 

“But you want to know if he was… _penetrated_ ,” Sally points out, and Lindsay shrugs.

 

“I mean, can you blame me?” she asks.

 

Now Sally shrugs. “Guess not,” she replies, deciding to leave it at that. As fascinating as the entire Bluth family’s pseudo-incestuous tendencies can be, now’s probably not the time for it. _Everything_ about the Bluth family is fascinating, really, now that she thinks about it, since technically Gob isn’t even Lindsay’s brother but her _nephew_ – although, for the sake of convenience( _what’s the point_? she’d said, _he’s always been my brother_ ), Lindsay never refers to him that way. Again, though, this isn’t the time.

 

“God,” Lindsay says, already moving on, “last night was a _nightmare_. And I don’t even just mean the part where my husband tried to show me my brother’s gay sex tape. All of it. The whole thing was a shitshow, family meeting and _everything_.”

 

“Ah,” Sally replies. _This_ should really be interesting. That’s the other thing Lindsay does when it comes to Tobias – complaining, and a lot of it. It’s something Sally finds herself looking forward to perhaps more than she should. But she can’t help it, honestly – it’s like a cautionary tale: this could’ve been _her_ life if she’d stayed with Tony. It’s a terrible thought, of course, but so are the rest of them. Unlike the others, though, this one makes her feel just the _slightest_ twinge of guilt. _That_ part is moderately worrying, but it’s not important right now. “Did he strip down to his cutoffs?”

 

“Of _course_ he did,” Lindsay sighs. “He _always_ does. I swear, that’s the only reason he even suggested these stupid ‘family meetings’ in the first place. He wants to embarrass me in front of Lucille. As if she needs any _more_ reasons to judge me. Honestly, between that and the mustache-”

 

“The mustache?” Sally interrupts, in need of clarification. Tobias Funke is an ugly little man, true, but the mustache in particular isn’t exactly any worse than the rest of him. Or _is_ it? Now she _has_ to know.

 

“You know, his stupid little pink mustache? He dyed it pink because he thought it was skin color, and he was trying to be Michael because he thinks life is just one big play. I guess he must’ve forgot shaving exists. _Idiot_. It was back in like, May or June when he did it the first time, but he must’ve done it again since then, because there’s no way it would _still_ be pink unless-”

 

“Right,” Sally interjects again. Men and pink facial hair; that’s a topic she knows all too well, and she’d gotten a glimpse of Tobias’s back at the 2nd of July parade. There’s only one problem here. “It’s _not_ still pink, though. You realize that, right?”

 

Lindsay’s jaw drops. “Wait, really? Are you sure?”

 

“Like 99%, yeah. I saw him at that wall unveiling thing your family lured me to. It wasn’t pink then. I mean, I’m sure he could’ve redyed it since, but…”

 

Lindsay shakes her head. “No, no, you’re probably right. I haven’t exactly been… looking at his face recently. It’s just… _not cute_.” She scrunches up her own face at the thought of his, and then both women burst out laughing.

 

“ _Wow_ , Lindsay,” Sally jokes, “that is _super_ harsh.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Lindsay playfully retorts. “You know, he _is_ my husband. I’m trying to be nice to him.”

 

“That’s… _valiant_ of you,” Sally replies, only half sarcastically, and Lindsay shrugs.

 

For several moments there’s only silence, and then Sally pulls open a drawer, extracting from it a bottle of champagne and two glasses. There is, after all, something to celebrate today, and it’s not just how effectively she’d quashed the magician sex tape scandal before it could become a thing. Lindsay raises her eyebrows.

 

“You’re not gonna make me drink alone, are you?” Sally asks, winking mischievously.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lindsay answers with a grin. Sally pours the champagne, then passes her a glass, mentally counting down the seconds until Lindsay asks what the occasion is.

 

“Cheers,” she prompts, raising her own glass in salute.

 

“Cheers,” Lindsay repeats, matching Sally’s gesture and lightly clinking the two glasses together. She downs almost half of hers before it hits her that typically people don’t tend to drink at work, especially not before noon. “What are we celebrating?”

 

“A successful partnership,” Sally replies, having nearly halfway finished off her own champagne. _Right on time_ , she thinks to herself. Lindsay’s so easy to predict. “Poll results came in this morning, and I’m way up. And, barring the potential leaking of the dreaded gay magician sex tape scandal, I’m projected to keep on climbing. And why wouldn’t I? I’ve got the best assistant in all of southern California. We make a great team, you and me.”

 

“True,” Lindsay agrees, nodding. Realizing Sally just referred to her as ‘the best’ makes her feel a little funny, so she quickly repays the compliment. Obviously _that’s_ what that feeling is, that she just received a compliment and didn’t give one back yet. “I mean, in my defense, I’m working for the best congresswoman in all of southern California, so it’s not like it’s difficult.”

 

She’s telling the truth, too, and she’s _extra_ proud of herself for that. Besides, working for Sally Sitwell is honestly a breeze – it’s mostly just making passive-aggressive phone calls, deciding which causes are worthy of pursuing, and designing glittery pro-Sally propaganda. All of which are things Lindsay would’ve spent all day doing anyway – well, save for the pro-Sally part, of course, but that’s a _super_ minor detail. Activism is never _really_ about the _cause_ , it’s about who can make the cutest posters. Everybody knows that. It’s like an open secret. Plus, this way she’s getting _paid_ for it. Why does anybody do this stuff for free?

 

She totally gets why Michael is always bitching about the importance of work now, and, _again_ , it’s a _real_ shame he’s not here to see this. His head might explode if he knew what an _actual_ difference in the world she’s been making lately. Of course, no good deed goes unpunished, and in Lindsay’s case the punishment is a whole lot of _thinking_. Thinking about things like how, if she and Sally had teamed up ages ago instead of settling into their convenient rivalry, they probably could’ve ruled the world by now. There’s really something there between them – not a _spark_ , and not _chemistry_ , because words like that describe _romance_. For some reason, though, they’re all that comes to mind. She hastily downs the rest of her champagne, trying not to think too much about it.

 

Sally sighs wistfully. “God, imagine where we’d be now if we’d joined forces back in high school.”

 

“It’s like you read my mind,” Lindsay says. She hopes Sally didn’t _actually_ read her mind, though, because that last part isn’t exactly something she wants to share. “We could’ve been _unstoppable_.”

 

“Who says we’re not unstoppable now?” Sally counters, refilling both champagne flutes.

 

“My husband, for one,” Lindsay replies, rolling her eyes. “Well, he never _says_ it. It’s more like just this aura he has. It’s like there’s not a brain inside his skull or something. Do you know what I mean? He’s so committed to the idea of being the perfect husband that he forgets he has to be committed to _me_ in order for that to happen. I think he has a version of me inside his head, a version of all of us, where we’re this perfect happy family, and he gets so caught up in his fantasy that he forgets about the actual thing.”

 

“So he’s got a make-believe version of you in his head, but no brain?” Sally asks, smirking. She’d been hoping the champagne would lead to more of this.

 

“Yeah, _exactly_ ,” Lindsay replies, matching Sally’s half-mocking tone. “I _knew_ you’d understand.”

 

Sally nods. She gets it, actually, even though it’s a pretty sharp divergence from her relationship with Tony and it doesn’t exactly fit the whole ‘cautionary tale’ narrative she’s been feeding herself. She suddenly wonders if maybe there’s more to it than that, if maybe she likes listening to Lindsay vent because she _cares_. That might explain a lot, actually. But why does she _care_?

 

“Why are you with him, anyway?” she asks. Thinking quickly, she skillfully peppers in the _slightest_ hint of slurred speech, just in case Lindsay thinks it’s too blunt of a question. She’s nowhere near even tipsy – how could _anyone_ be, off just a glass and a half of champagne? – but _Lindsay_ doesn’t need to know that.

 

“Well, it’s not like I can get a divorce,” Lindsay replies, not bothered by the question in the slightest. After all, it’s _totally_ valid. “I’ve made a commitment to him, and I’ve got to stick it out. He’s family.”

 

Sally nods. “Well, what attracted you to him to start with?”

 

Lindsay takes a moment to consider it. Well, to consider several things. One, despite how extensively she’s discussed(or at least dissed and cussed) Tobias with Sally, she’s never really gone all the way back to the beginning like that. Two, she kind of wants to, even though she and Sally _are_ formal rivals and, were their rivalry ever to be reignited, it could _totally_ be used against her, just like those stupid Herbert Love campaign photos. Three, Sally seems a little buzzed right now, which gives Lindsay an idea. If _she_ pretends to be drunk too, none of it even matters, because legally nothing you say while intoxicated can be held against you(Barry said that _before_ he got disbarred, so it _must_ be the truth). Four, she’s putting _way_ too much thought into this, and Sally’s still waiting for an answer.

 

“Honestly?” she says finally, deciding to risk it. “I think it was convenience. I’d been seeing this other guy, but we were on a break, and I wanted to make him jealous. Tobias was single – god, I wonder why – and I already knew my parents hated him, so that was a win-win. Plus he’d just gotten his medical license, and doctors make good money. And he had hair back then, too. No offense.”

 

Sally nearly drops her champagne, but manages to keep her cool. “Why would I be offended by that, Lindsay?”

 

“Because of your dad,” Lindsay clarifies, making sure to slur her words a little. “He _is_ still bald, right? They didn’t cure that yet?”

 

 _Duh_ , Sally thinks, internally reprimanding herself for even daring to think her secret had somehow gotten out. “Yep, still bald,” she replies, and Lindsay nods. _Just like_ _his daughter_ , Sally thinks to herself, but she’d never in a million years say that part out loud. “So you married him for his hair?” she asks, casually steering the conversation back towards the other woman.

 

Lindsay scoffs. “No, I married him because Michael came home one day and announced he was marrying Tracey. What was I supposed to do, just let _him_ get married first? And my wedding was _so_ much more beautiful than Michael’s, anyway, so I won. He claimed it wasn’t a competition, but I would’ve said that too if I was the one who lost. Then again, his wife _died_ , so who _really_ lost? I could never be that lucky.”

 

“Mm,” Sally replies through a mouthful of champagne, hoping Lindsay will continue unprompted. This is good stuff, _really_ good stuff – the info, not the champagne, which is admittedly pretty good too. She’s still not even remotely close to drunk, of course, but Lindsay certainly seems to be getting there.

 

“And I probably could’ve still gotten out of it at that point, but then Michael got Tracey pregnant, and what was I supposed to do, just let _him_ have the first kid? Of course, Tobias and I had some… _intimacy issues_ that we had to work through, and then we had to shell out all that money for the artificial insemination, so Maeby’s younger than George Michael, but I won that one too. I mean, look at my daughter and then look at Michael’s son. No offense to George Michael, but who would _you_ rather have as a child?”

 

Sally flashes back to when she and Michael briefly dated all those years ago – that relationship had fizzled out faster than one of Gob’s stupid tricks, but it’s not like she hadn’t thought about it. Motherhood, that is. Dating a guy who has a kid was the closest she was willing to come to it, she’d decided. Having children of her own was just – _no_. Not for her. Plus, why risk losing her figure? Then again, that certainly hadn’t been an issue for Lindsay Bluth-Funke, who’s still got the body she had back in high school.

 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Lindsay says with an over-the-top wave of her hand. “It’s rhetorical, anyway. I’m just so proud of my daughter, you know? Even after _everything_ I put her through, she was the one who sought me out and showed me who I really am. You’d think she’d have wanted nothing to do with me by that point, but she still gave me another chance.”

 

Sally has no idea how to respond to that, so instead she just nods supportively. Lindsay, meanwhile, wipes a tear from her eye – she actually _does_ get emotional thinking about Maeby, and who would’ve thought she could use that for her fake-drunk performance? If this was Broadway, she wouldn’t _just_ have broken her leg. She’d be in a full-body cast at this point.

 

“Honestly,” she continues, holding back a (mostly)fake sob, “she’s the only good thing I ever got from the past 25 years. My whole life has been a fallacy, my marriage most of all.”

 

“What’s Tobias like in bed?” Sally asks bluntly, despite knowing full well that there’s no ‘in bed’ when it comes to Tobias Funke. She wants to subtly nudge the conversation back towards its more gossip-y beginnings, because the _last_ thing she needs right now is for _another_ assistant of hers to have an emotional breakdown, especially if word were to get out that alcohol was involved this time around. It’s definitely that, and not that hearing about Lindsay’s hardships invokes any sort of pity-like response from her.

 

Lindsay scoffs, then giggles for good measure. “Well, if I ever find out, I’ll let you know.”

 

“So it really is _that_ bad, huh?” Sally replies, matching Lindsay’s drunk-sounding giggle with one of her own. “Well, what’s he into? Anything super weird?”

 

Lindsay rolls her eyes. “It’s _Tobias_. He’s not into _anything_. Or any _one_ , for that matter.”

 

“Really? No _one_? He’s never… called you by the wrong name?” Sally inquires, testing the waters. Being called ‘Gobie’ that one time had left a bad taste in her mouth, and on some level she’s hoping Lindsay can relate.

 

Lindsay has to think for a moment. “Well, he’s called me ‘Tobias’ before. Does that count?”

 

“ _Wow_ ,” Sally replies. Not what she’d been after, but still intriguing. She takes another sip of champagne.

 

“Then again,” Lindsay continues, “it’s not like we were doing anything sexual. I think we were just in a fight about something. Probably _that_ , actually, now that I think about it.”

 

“Oh,” Sally responds, somewhat disappointed. It makes sense, though – Tobias isn’t gay and in love with another man like Tony, after all, despite his vast reservoir of double entendres. Smirking slightly, she decides to add, “Mine was sexual.”

 

Lindsay’s interest is beyond piqued at this point, but she hides it expertly. She knows about Sally’s relationship with Tony Wonder, of course, but only the bare minimum, and she gets the feeling that borderline-drunk Sally is about to spill a lot more details than sober Sally has ever even come close to revealing. _She’s_ supposed to be borderline drunk too, though, so she pretends to be clueless, tilting her head. “Your _what_ was sexual?”

 

 _Right_ , Sally thinks, _she’s drunk right now._ _And as far as she knows, so am I_. It’s the perfect opportunity to vent. “My… when I got called by the wrong name,” she replies, very gently twirling a strand of hair. “But that’s what I get, I guess, for being with a guy who calls himself The Gay Magician. You know, I _still_ don’t know if he’s gay or if he’s bi. I’m not sure if _he_ knows either, to be honest.”

 

“Yeah, why _were_ you with him?” Lindsay asks, slurring her words just a tad in case that comes off as rude.

 

Sally sighs. It’s a fair question. “Honestly? It started as business. I went to one of his shows one night out of sheer boredom, and at that point he was just _a_ magician. So we start talking afterward, and he happens to mention how he’s come up with this great gimmick to boost his career, but he needs money to make it happen. Naturally I ask what exactly this winning gimmick is, which is when he tells me all about his gay magician idea-”

 

“But isn’t _every_ magician pretty much gay?” Lindsay interjects. Granted, she only knows two, but they both fit the bill.

 

Sally flings her hands in the air. “That’s what I said! _Literally_ , those were my exact words. And he said, ‘I’ll show you how not gay I am’ – which, looking back, he totally lifted right out of a Straight Bait film, so that should’ve been my first red flag – but at the time I just thought he had a sense of humor about himself, so I accepted. And honestly, that first time around, he _was_ pretty convincing. So it’s later that night, we’re in bed together sharing a cigarette, and I’m like, what the hell, maybe he’s onto something here. So I offer to fund his whole rebranding operation _if_ he lets me be his agent. And the rest, as they say, is history. Shameful, regretful history. He didn’t tell me about his stupid musical until _much_ later.”

 

Lindsay already knows the answer to her next question, but she asks it anyway. “What name did he call you?”

 

Sally rolls her eyes. “He called me _Gobie_. Not just Gob, but Gob _ie_.”

 

“ _Ooh_ ,” Lindsay cringes, finishing off her second glass of champagne. That’s _infinitely_ worse than just being called ‘Gob’. “ _That_ had to hurt.”

 

“Right?” Sally agrees, finishing off her own. “They’d slept together _once_ at that point, while we’d been – I guess _partners_ is the term – for over five years. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t seen it coming, though. There were definitely signs. He’d always get _way_ too into his gay magician performances, which he’d write off as ‘dedication to his craft’. He _also_ admitted to even sometimes blowing random guys in between shows, ‘to keep up the illusion of being gay’, he said, and then he’d try to defend himself by saying he _only_ did it if they were hot, like _that_ makes him seem any straighter. He’s always had a thing for your brother, too, you know. He went to Gob’s fake wedding and apparently got so _uncontrollably horny_ watching Gob dance around in a loincloth that he felt the need to work out his sexual frustration by sleeping with the bride. He got her pregnant, too, and now he owes a _ton_ of child support. What a _moron_.”

 

“You know, Tobias _also_ has a bastard son,” Lindsay points out. “There’s no child support, thank _god_ , because it was a test tube baby. He was _way_ too eager to sign all those agreements at the sperm bank, and now my daughter’s got some random _loser_ as a half-sibling.”

 

Sally rolls her eyes. “God, men are _useless_.”

 

Lindsay nods. “Yeah, Tobias even has the shirt.”

 

“Oh yeah, he wore it to your family’s wall unveiling, didn’t he?” Sally recalls, grinning. “I didn’t want to say anything then, but I thought it fit him _very_ well.”

 

“I _did_ say that to him,” Lindsay counters, also grinning. “He took it as a compliment.”

 

“Figures,” Sally replies. She eyes their empty glasses for a moment, then looks back at Lindsay. “More champagne?”

 

“Yes please,” Lindsay answers emphatically. “Although I really probably shouldn’t,” she adds, batting her eyelashes and leaning forward, placing her hand on Sally’s wrist, “my judgment’s fuzzy enough as it is.”

 

Sally’s eyes go slightly wide, and Lindsay suddenly realizes what _exactly_ she just said and did. _Shit_. That had been a reflex, a skill she’d honed to perfection back when she used to rep Cloudmir vodka. Subconsciously, she must still associate being fake-drunk with insinuating she’s willing to be enticed into bed by a stranger. She’d always half-hoped they’d take her up on it, too; it wasn’t like _Tobias_ had been satisfying her on that front. But why’d she just go straight to that with _Sally_?

 

“You know, what with the _calories_ , right?” she continues faux-casually, removing her hand from Sally’s wrist just as quickly she’d placed it there.

 

Momentarily Sally had felt like she couldn’t breathe, and she perhaps overcompensates for that by bursting into an awkward giggling fit as she refills the champagne flutes. “The _calories_ , of course,” she replies, still laughing a little harder than she probably should be. “You’re _funny_ , Lindsay.”

 

Lindsay joins in with a giggling fit of her own, internally praising her own ability to diffuse the situation. It helps that Sally’s so tipsy – Lindsay could’ve sworn her face was flushed even _before_ she started laughing. Thank _god_ for alcohol. That’s Lindsay’s excuse for why her own face heated up just now, too, despite the fact that, as a true Bluth, she’s still not even buzzed yet.

 

Sally tries not to look too relieved that her reaction went unnoticed, still not quite forgiving herself for freezing up like that a moment ago. Of _course_ Lindsay hadn’t meant anything by that little wrist-touch and comment. She’s just a flirt by nature, and apparently kind of a lightweight too. _Shame on me for assuming_ , Sally thinks to herself, _just because_ … oh, _god_ , is _that_ what that weird feeling is? Does she… _like_ Lindsay? Is _that_ why she cares? Suddenly it all makes sense, and she wishes she was drunk for real.

 

“You probably never have to worry about calories, though, huh?” Lindsay asks, sipping her third glass of champagne. Even though she _totally_ flawlessly smoothed over that little slip-up just now, she feels like something’s shifted in the air. Like she’s just admitted something out loud, but she doesn’t know _what_. “You’re _Sally Sitwell_. You’re _perfect_.”

 

“I’m not perfect, Lindsay,” Sally scoffs. Normally she’d just take the compliment, but something’s compelling her to push back. Maybe it’s the fact that Lindsay brought up calories, and she knows all about Lindsay’s body image issues and where they came from. _God_ , that Lucille Bluth is a _bitch_.

 

“Oh come on, yes you are,” Lindsay protests. “Look at your life. You’re a _congresswoman_ , you’re basically running your own company, you _got out_ of your failing relationship, which _I’ve_ never been able to do, and your _hair_ -”

 

“My hair?” Sally interjects.

 

“Lucille 2 was right, god rest her soul,” Lindsay replies. “You’ve got that _gorgeous_ long hair. Mine’s gonna take _forever_ to grow back like that, and yours always looks so _effortless_.”  
  


That’s when Sally decides to do something she’s never done before, because apparently a million years have passed over the course of this conversation and she’s somehow ready now to confess her biggest secret. She reaches up to her forehead and peels off her eyebrows one at a time. “It’s a wig,” she admits, placing her eyebrows on the desk in front of her. “I’m bald, Lindsay. Alopecia runs in the family.”

 

Lindsay’s jaw drops open, and Sally, feeling exposed, pulls out her bottle of eyebrow glue and quickly reapplies them. She debates blurting out, ‘ _ha ha, just kidding, it was all_ _just_ _a trick_ ’, but ultimately decides not to go down that route – all things considered, she’d rather be bald than a _magician_. Unlike _some people_ , she’s got the balls to reveal her secrets.

 

“Oh – oh my _god_ ,” Lindsay says after an agonizing minute of stunned silence. “I – _honestly_ , I had no idea. They just – it all just looks so _real_. How do you _do_ that? I mean, with your dad, it’s so obvious, he just looks _ridiculous_ , but _you_ – nobody could _ever_ tell in a million years. _Wow_.”

 

“Thanks,” Sally replies, her face breaking out into a rare genuine grin. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever admitted that to. I kind of expected you to make fun of me.”

 

“Make fun of you?” Lindsay asks, still totally blown away by the confession. If this had happened a year ago, or even a few months back, she absolutely would have. She would’ve shouted it from the rooftops and made Sally the laughingstock of Orange County. Now, though, she’s just in awe. “I wouldn’t do that, Sally. We’re… _friends_.”

 

“Huh, yeah,” Sally replies. “Yeah, I guess we _are_ friends.”

 

“We’re _friends_ ,” Lindsay repeats, letting the word settle over her tongue. Something about it _still_ doesn’t feel _quite_ right, though. It must be because they spent so much time being rivals, and now they’re _not_ rivals, and that’s why being _friends_ is so confusing.

 

For a minute or so they just drink in silence, each processing their newfound friendship. After all, neither has exactly had an abundance of close female friends in her life, and the feeling – even if complicated by _feelings_ – is nice. Eventually, though, Lindsay(who’s extremely proud of herself for remaining so committed to her mock intoxication even in the face of these new revelations) can’t resist the urge to ask a few questions.

 

“So, the alopecia,” she starts, making sure to slur her words _just_ a little, “it affects your _entire_ body?”

 

“Yeah, Lindsay, that’s how it works,” Sally replies with a laugh.

 

“So you _never_ have to shave?” Lindsay continues. “No waxing or _anything_? God, you’re so lucky. Your skin must feel like _satin_.”

 

Sally smirks. She considers letting Lindsay touch her arm to prove it, but decides that might be weird – not to mention, if she feels the way about Lindsay that she _thinks_ she feels about Lindsay, the act wouldn’t be doing herself any favors. “Yeah, it _almost_ makes up for the fact that I have to glue my eyebrows on each morning and I live in constant fear of someone tugging on my hair.”

 

“I guess beauty comes with a price tag either way,” Lindsay replies, nodding. She’s not sure why she’s still thinking about how smooth Sally’s skin must be, or why she’d hoped Sally might offer to let her feel it for herself. She tries not to think about it, though, instead smiling at Sally, who smiles back.

 

“To being friends,” Sally offers, raising her half-full champagne flute.

 

“To being friends,” Lindsay echoes, doing the same.


	8. George Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoenix hadn't worked out, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would start this off with the obligatory 'sorry this took 2 months to get done', but it hasn't been two full months yet so i'm actually ahead of schedule lmao. anyway, first things first i fixed the typo in the last chapter. the one time i don't proofread something it bites me in the ass.
> 
> but yeah, moving on to notes that are actually relevant to this chapter: originally this was supposed to just be the scene at the end, but i wanted to go into a bit more detail with the beginning and APPARENTLY i really like writing awkward cringy father-son dialogue, so it turned into almost 8k and therefore the second-longest chapter in this fic. i'm not 100% satisfied with how it turned out either but i am so fucking ready to be done with writing this fic that i've decided i don't care anymore. 
> 
> i'm pretty sure no one is actually still reading this at this point and i will freely admit that everything past chapter 5 has been an absolute drag to write but like! i finished it! i finally fucking finished it! and it only took me what, seven months? good lord.

The ominous signs begin almost immediately.

 

“This is our new start, son,” Michael says, his eyes fixed on the road as they leave Newport Beach behind them. “Or, actually, no – you know, let’s not call it that. I feel like we could maybe come up with a fresher term.”

 

“Yeah, it does kind of remind me of Uncle Tobi-” George Michael tries to agree.

 

“Our _fresh_ start,” Michael loudly interrupts. “It’s a _fresh_ start. Just you and me, buddy. Father and son, headed off to Phoenix together. Just the way it’s always been meant to be. Can’t believe it’s taken us so long to finally shake off the family.”

 

“Yeah,” George Michael replies, forcing a smile. His thoughts are all over the place – half on Buster, who really is a killer, and half on Maeby, who really is his cousin. Well, that’s just two places, actually. Maybe they’re not as scattered as he’d thought. At least he doesn’t have to worry about Fakeblock anymore. It’s back to simpler problems, like making out with his cousin. _Does that qualify as another regression_?

 

“Speaking of ‘can’t believe’, did you see your Uncle Gob just now?” his father asks, apparently not as eager to shake off the family as he’d let George Michael to believe.

 

“Yeah, Dad, what was that about, exactly?” George Michael inquires, recalling the incident several minutes prior. Michael had dramatically exited the Winnebago without so much as a word and stormed off in his older brother’s direction, only to return moments later yelling back at him about being out of the family. It’d been a typical Michael/Gob interaction, of course, but a little context would still be nice.

 

“That shirt he was wearing?” Michael replies, missing the point. “Yeah, it’s gotta be at _least_ a size and a half too small for him. Thank god he had on his own pants. It would’ve been like the Hot Cops all over again. And speaking of the Hot Cops, that should’ve been a dead giveaway, you know? It’s a bunch of gay strippers and then _one_ straight guy? Something’s not adding up there, if you catch my drift.”

 

“Okay,” George Michael mutters, now more confused than before. So much for context.

 

“But, you know, to hell with him,” Michael continues, shaking his head. “Why are we even talking about him, anyway?”

 

_You’re the one who brought him up_ , George Michael thinks, but he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have a chance to, because Michael’s still talking.

 

“You know what, new rule. From now on we don’t even _talk_ about the family, any of them. To hell with them all, am I right? Let _them_ deal with the fallout this time.”

 

He looks at George Michael expectantly, and George Michael forces another smile and nod. It’s fine with him, he’s decided. It really is. The less he thinks about the family right now, the better. And it’s not like he really has any other options at this point.

 

“We are _out_ of the family,” Michael repeats for what feels like the millionth time. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

 

George Michael doesn’t reply.

 

-

 

They’re at a truck stop on the edge of some town called Quartzsite, at least according to Something Maps, when it hits George Michael fully that they just might _actually_ make it to Phoenix this time. They’ve never come this far without turning around. They’ve never come this far at all, actually – their previous record was the Arizona border, and even that was only yesterday.

 

Michael climbs back into the Winnebago, wiping the sweat from his brow. “This thing guzzles gas like your grandmother guzzles booze,” he informs George Michael, who chooses not to draw attention to his questionable choice of yet again referencing the family they’re allegedly out of. “But it’ll all be worth it soon enough, son. Only 125 miles to Phoenix! Give or take, right? What’s your app say?”

 

“Yeah, give or take,” George Michael replies.

 

Michael reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, extracting from it a crisp $20 bill. “How about you take this, pop into that convenience store over there, and buy us a couple of sodas, plus some snacks for the road? I’d do it myself, but this desert heat…” he trails off, shaking his head. Behind them, a big rig driver taps the horn impatiently. “Plus, I’ve gotta move the Winnie. We’re hogging the pump.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” George Michael replies. He wonders how exactly his father is planning to deal with the heat once they get to Phoenix – where, according to the weather app, the temperature is more of the same.

 

He sees what Michael means, though. It is _hot_ outside. There’s no sea breeze, either, so the heat just kind of sits there. At least the humidity’s low. George Michael doesn’t have much experience with extremely humid climates, but he’s heard that humidity just makes things worse, and the _last_ thing he needs right now is for things to get worse. Fortunately, though, the convenience store has air conditioning. He lingers inside perhaps longer than he should, reasoning that he’s exploring all his food and beverage options, although the true culprit is the cold air blasting on him from all sides. He hasn’t said anything yet for fear of starting a conflict, but the A/C in the camper is… lacking, to say the least.

 

When he makes it back to the RV, bag of drinks and snacks in hand, he finds his father growing mild-to-moderately impatient. “There you are, son!” Michael exclaims, still pacing, as George Michael sets his purchases down on the table. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”

 

George Michael forces a laugh. “Well, let’s hope not.”

 

“Especially not when your old man drives a mapping car, huh?” Michael asks, nudging his arm.

 

“Oh, you still drive that?”

 

“Well, uh, no, actually. They took it away from me after I drove it into Mexico. Something about not crossing international borders.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“But hey, some things you never forget.” Michael reaches for a soda, returning to the driver’s seat before cracking it open.

 

“Yeah, I guess it’s kind of hard to when you’ve always got it in your pocket,” George Michael replies. He sits down in the passenger seat with his own soda, noticing with a growing sense of apprehension that the A/C seems to be straining even harder than it was before he left.

 

“See, you get it.” Michael pauses for a moment as he steers the Winnebago back onto the highway. “You know what, son, that reminds me, I actually need you to do me a favor. Could you go ahead and look up some RV parks in the Phoenix area? We should probably have a destination in mind now that we’re getting close.”

 

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” George Michael answers, pulling out his phone. Beside him, Michael’s still talking, already shifting the conversation back to what George Michael is beginning to suspect is his favorite subject.

 

“I gotta say, I’m surprised your Pop-Pop gave up this thing so easily. I was expecting more of a fight, but he just let me have it. Didn’t even want the stair car in return, but I _insisted_ that he take it. Guy’s gotta get around somehow, you know? It was the least I could do.”

 

“You’re kind of talking about the family again, Dad,” George Michael points out, unable to ignore it any longer.

 

Michael smacks his forehead. “Am I doing that again? _Shoot_. Those people, they _really_ get into your head. But what I’m trying to say is, this is a major improvement over that godforsaken stair car. We’re saving a _ton_ of money this way, not having to shell out every night just for some sleazy motel to have a roof over our heads.”

 

“Plus, the stair car is covered in a dead woman’s blood,” George Michael adds. “So that’s probably-”

 

“ _Hey_!” Michael half-shouts, turning to stare at him. “I thought we agreed on no talking about the family.”

 

George Michael hadn’t mentioned the family, but he decides not to argue. “Right, sorry.”

 

“You know what we should do?” Michael asks, then continues without waiting for a response. “We should rearrange this thing. The camper, I mean. The way it is right now, it’s got traces of your Pop-Pop everywhere. I think that’s gotta be why you can’t seem to go five minutes without bringing up the family.”

 

George Michael glances around, again choosing not to point out that _he’s_ not the one who can’t go five minutes without bringing up the family. “Well, I think some of this stuff might be Barry’s. But, wait, Dad, isn’t all the furniture glued down?”

 

“Screwed down, actually,” Michael replies. “And lucky for us I’ve got a screwdriver. Hang on.”

 

“Wait, what are you-” George Michael protests, but the answer is obvious. His father is steering them off the highway again and into a nearby parking lot, presumably so he can make good on his threat of rearranging the camper.

 

“It’s our fresh start, son, remember?” Michael asks, already climbing over the seat. “We don’t need all these reminders of – well, I don’t want to say ‘the family’ again, because I feel like that might encourage you to keep – _damn it!_ I just did it again, didn’t I? Well, you know what? My point is, it’s better to go ahead and flush out all this crap before we get to Phoenix. Don’t need our old life weighing down our new one.”

 

George Michael is suddenly very alarmed. “Flush out… _crap_? Dad, are you – you’re not planning on emptying the septic tank in the middle of this parking lot, are you?”

 

Michael looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “ _What_? No, son. _No_! Where in god’s name do you come up with this – _oh_ , okay, yeah, I hear it now. That may not have been the best choice of words on my part.”

 

“Right,” George Michael replies, still a little uneasy. “They’ve got designated places for that, anyway.”

 

“They sure do,” Michael agrees, with a much wider smile on his face than anyone discussing sewage should ever have. “At the RV park in Phoenix, where you and me are headed right now!” He pauses for a moment, just long enough to grab the screwdriver. “But no, I do think we should go ahead and get some of this furniture out of here before we get there. That’s what I meant. Now come on, help me unscrew the couch.”

 

George Michael is concerned. “Oh, the – we’re unscrewing the couch? I was kind of thinking that that might be a nice place for me to – you know, that I might sleep there.”

 

Michael’s down on the floor with the screwdriver now, still moving forward with his spur-of-the-moment plans faster than George Michael can process them, but he pops back up to observe his son. “Sleep on the _couch_? Don’t be ridiculous, George Michael. That’s what beds are for.”

 

George Michael nods, then shakes his head. “Yeah, but Dad, there’s only _one_ bed.”

 

“True, but it’s a _big_ bed. There’s plenty room for the both of us. It’ll be just like camping out in the attic back when we lived in the model home. Remember that?”

 

“Simpler times,” George Michael recalls.

 

“Simpler times, exactly,” Michael replies from the floor. “We’re going back to simpler times, when it was just the two of us. Just a father and a son, taking on the world together. Today it’s Phoenix, tomorrow… well, it’ll still be Phoenix. I mean, it’s _Phoenix_ , for crying out loud. Why would we ever need to leave?”

 

“Right,” George Michael says, hoping his voice doesn’t betray his doubts. He’s not sure how he feels about staying in Phoenix forever – it’s one thing if it’s temporary, a well-earned post-Fakeblock vacation slash way to forget that he made out with his cousin, but forever? _Forever_? That’s not exactly how he’d envisioned his future.

 

Then again, up until yesterday he’d been envisioning a future behind bars over the whole Fakeblock debacle. It still seems like a possibility, actually, despite Dusty’s reassurances that the contract they’d drawn up for the Chinese to sign was ironclad. It almost seems _wrong_ that the whole nightmare is finally over, although some of that probably has to do with the fact that they’d gotten out of it by spinning yet another web of lies. George Michael has had enough lies for a lifetime, at least for now.

 

“You know, though, you’re probably right about the bed,” Michael continues, bringing George Michael back to the present. “Your Pop-Pop’s been living in this thing, and he’s never exactly been one to abstain.” He pauses for a moment. “Then again, though, with what Mom did to him with those estrogen pills, I guess he doesn’t really have a choice anymore. Maybe we’re good.” He pauses again, thinking it through. “Well, but wait, he _did_ go to Mexico with your Uncle Gob on what your uncle described in much cruder terms as a ‘sex tour’, and, knowing your Uncle Gob, it might not be a bad idea to go ahead and replace that mattress after all.” He pauses a third time, still thinking. “Then again, though, all things considered, I doubt your uncle’s spent any ‘quality time’ with any _woman_ in _quite_ a while, so we might actually be safe.” He pauses one final time. “Actually, though, come to think of it, _Barry’s_ been squatting here, and god knows what the hell _he’s_ been up to. Yeah, that settles it. We’re replacing the entire bed. You know what we’ll do? We’ll get an even bigger one.”

 

_Or we could get two smaller ones_ , George Michael thinks to himself. He doesn’t say it out loud, though, not wanting to seem argumentative. And besides, there are worse things in the world than having to share a bed with your dad. He can’t think of any at the moment, but he’s sure they exist.

 

“Yep,” Michael remarks, “this is gonna be _perfect_. I can feel it.”

 

-

 

It’s not perfect, not even close.

 

It’d been an hour or two after sundown when George Michael’s hunch was confirmed – this time, they really _have_ made it all the way to Phoenix, give or take their original RV furniture. The couch, much to George Michael’s dismay, is still sitting in that parking lot in Quartzsite, along with one side of the dining booth. “We don’t need the whole thing,” Michael had said, “it’s just the two of us.”

 

The remaining bench has been relocated to where the couch used to be, only fastened down on one side due to its much shorter length. The table, meanwhile, is no longer fastened down at all – Michael hadn’t been able to figure out how to do that without damaging the camper, so he’d improvised with duct tape instead. It wobbles now every time they hit a pothole.

 

“Doesn’t this just open up the whole space so much more?” Michael had asked, admiring his handiwork(he’d also gotten rid of the partition behind the driver’s seat, for – as far as George Michael could tell – no reason other than to prove he could). George Michael hadn’t been so sure that was a good thing, but he’d nodded along anyway as his father had continued. “It gives us all this new room to extend the counters, and we can even put in a minibar. Turn this place into the hottest party hangout in Phoenix.”

 

Extending the counters, though, as it turned out, had been a no-go for the time being – according to the guy at the RV supply store they’d gone to, it would probably take a few days to get the job done, and Michael wasn’t in the mood to wait. “Forget about him,” he’d said to George Michael, “we’ll do it ourselves once we get to Phoenix.”

 

The bed, fortunately, had been easily replaceable, which at least meant no worrying about whatever germs Barry may have left behind. Following a trip to a home goods store to pick up some new sheets, they’d been back on I-10 with only a few hours lost. Not exactly being flush with cash at the moment, they’d headed for the second-cheapest RV park George Michael could find. “We can’t go for the cheapest,” Michael had insisted, “that’s where all the druggies will be. You know, son, they use campers like this to make meth all the time. Haven’t you ever seen Breaking Bad?”

 

George Michael had wanted to protest that online reviews tend to be a much better representation of reality than a TV show – and consequently that the difference in quality between the RV park they chose and the one they could’ve stayed in for $2 fewer per night appeared to be negligible – but he’d kept his mouth shut, not wanting to rain on Michael’s metaphorical parade.

 

“I gotta say,” Michael had observed once they arrived at their destination(which, for all the $2 extra on its price tag, was still pretty bare-bones), “your Aunt Lindsay would hate this place. Or maybe she’d love it. Who can tell with her these days? Your Gangie said she’s back now. I don’t know if you heard. Talk about fickle.”

 

George Michael had bitten his tongue and forced a laugh, resigned at that point to the fact that his father would probably never stop bringing up the family they’d supposedly left behind. There were more pressing matters at hand, anyway, like whether or not the plumbing would actually work – George Michael seemed to recall Barry complaining about it at some point back in Mexico. Fortunately, however, it’d turned out to be a non-issue, a merry mix-up easily chalked up to the fact that Barry’s an idiot.

 

Not that there aren’t _any_ issues, of course. For one, the Winnebago is their only vehicle, meaning they have to unhook all the utilities every time they want to go anywhere(Michael had forgotten to do this once, and it hadn’t been pretty). The neighbors are questionable at best, and at worst engaging in drug-fueled parties at all hours of the night. The long-suffering air conditioner had given out on the first morning, prompting an emergency shopping trip to buy fans that further cut into their already tight budget, and even then Michael had decided that adding a minibar and extending the counters were more urgent priorities than finding a source of income.

 

It’s a week(or maybe two; George Michael’s already lost count – the days all drag together when you spend them doing nothing) into their self-proclaimed ‘new life in Phoenix’ when Michael, surrounded by his newly-installed minibar, newly-extended counter space, and newly-purchased fans that do surprisingly little to combat the heat, finally caves.

 

“You know, son, I’ve been thinking,” he announces, fanning himself with a magazine, “it might be a good idea for you and I to find ourselves some jobs.”

 

George Michael nods, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Yeah, Dad, that’s what I’ve been saying, like, from the day we got here.”

 

Michael nods back. “From day one, yeah, I know. Don’t I know it, pal. It’s just, you know, and here’s the thing – I thought we could use a little _vacation_. A little _us time_ , you know, you and me. Try to get back on our feet a little.”

 

George Michael nods again. “Right, yeah, and that’s – you know, it’s been great, Dad, it really has. It’s just, _us time_ doesn’t really pay the bills, and I just think it might be – maybe it’s a little more difficult to get back on our feet when we’re spending all day every day just lounging around.” He’d tried very hard not to make that sound rude, and if the look on Michael’s face is any indication, he’d succeeded.

 

“You are absolutely right, George Michael,” Michael replies. He sets down his magazine, only to immediately pick it back up and resume fanning himself. “Absolutely right. My little worker bee – or, well, let’s not say the word ‘bee’, because that brings to mind your Uncle Gob, but, uh… you know, just the attitude I’d expect you to have. Still in your early twenties and you’ve already sold your own company… _twice_.”

 

George Michael is uncomfortable, and not just from the heat, but he tries not to let it show. “Well, Dad, I don’t know if I’d really – if I’d go that far. I mean, the first time I sold it was to _you_ , and then the second time we didn’t get any money for it. We kind of had to go through that whole elaborate scheme to trick the Chinese into taking it off our hands, remember? Plus, the whole company was bogus, which I feel like is kind of important to mention.”

 

Michael nods, fanning his magazine faster. “Well, either way, it’ll certainly pad your resume. That’s never a bad thing.”

 

“Uh, yeah, I was thinking… um, I was thinking I might just go ahead and leave Fakeblock _off_ my resume,” George Michael admits, dreading his father’s reaction. “I mean, technically it wasn’t even _me_ , it was George Maharis. Things might get confusing, you know, for the employers.”

 

Fortunately, Michael seems to buy the excuse. “Well, that is a good point. You’d hate to confuse people.”

 

“Yeah,” George Michael agrees.

 

“And speaking of confusing,” Michael continues, still fanning his magazine, “I’m actually gonna need your help with my own resume. See, you know me, I prefer an actual physical copy, something you can hold in your hand. And I had mine all printed up, nice and neat-”

 

“Right.”

 

“-but I left it at the Bluth Company! All the way back in Newport! Stupid, _stupid_ Michael, you know?”

 

“Well, Dad, I don’t think you’re _stupid_ -”

 

“Thank you, son. Means a lot. And, you know, me either, actually, but that’s – anyway, I _could_ have them fax it over, but I highly doubt your Uncle Gob knows how to use a fax machine. Plus, in the unlikely event that he does, we don’t have one in the camper, so we’d have to go to the library, and they charge.”

 

“They still have fax machines at the library?” George Michael asks, reaching for a magazine of his own.

 

Michael beams, or maybe it’s just the sweat reflecting off his face. “Look at you, so technologically advanced. Actually, they very well may not. I haven’t checked. But that brings me to my next point, and here’s where you come in with your tech know-how. See, I had it online too, on my LinkedIn, but well – you know this next part. I told you that day in the attic, remember? Pemender from Kuala Lumpur, he got in there, and he just… he ruined it, you know? He _destroyed_ all my hard work.”

 

George Michael suspects that there was considerably less for Pemender from Kuala Lumpur to ‘destroy’ than Michael is implying, but he still feels partially responsible. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

 

“Well, it’s not your fault,” Michael says. “I mean, it _is_ your fault, of course, because of Fakeblock, but I won’t hold it against you. And this is how you can make it up to me, anyway, by helping me put everything back where it should be.”

 

“Right, yeah,” George Michael replies. “I can do that.”

 

-

 

Maybe it’s just the heat, but things are starting to look up.

 

George Michael finds a job easily enough. It’s just in an ice cream parlor, but it pays the bills(which is to say, the nightly fee at the RV park). It reminds him of simpler times working in the banana stand, but it’s different enough that he feels safe not classifying it as any sort of regression – total, minor, or otherwise. Plus it has a working air conditioner, which is a welcome improvement.

 

Michael, meanwhile, isn’t so lucky. He’d apparently never given up on that dream of working side by side with his son, even if it happens to be in an ice cream parlor instead of in the Bluth Company offices, and at first, the dream had almost been realized. He’s hired along with George Michael, and for about a day everything goes fine.

 

But then Michael starts talking. To the customers, specifically. George Michael isn’t sure why – maybe it’s the inherent embarrassment of being a forty-something-year-old man living in an RV park and scooping ice cream for a living – but for some reason his father feels the need to go above and beyond the basic small talk required by the position.

 

It had started out simply enough. Michael had gotten a customer’s order wrong(George Michael hadn’t understood how) and offered the following apology: “Sorry about that, ma’am. It’s my first day and I’m a little overwhelmed by all these options. You know, I actually used to work in a frozen banana stand, and all we had was chocolate and nuts. Keep it simple, you know?”

 

The woman had given a polite smile, and much to George Michael’s dismay his father had taken that as an invitation to continue. “Yeah, it was the family banana stand. Bluth’s Original Frozen Banana, we called it. Or something like that. I don’t really keep tabs. I’m Michael Bluth of the Bluth family. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

 

The woman had shaken her head, and instead of leaving it at that like any normal person Michael had kept on going. “No? Really? Huh. How about that. Well, it’s not exactly something I just go around telling random people. We’re kind of infamous back in Newport Beach. There was all this stuff that my parents did, and then my brother killed a woman. His ex-girlfriend, actually. Pushed her down a flight of stairs. And that’s not even the worst part. See, what he did with her body-”

 

It had been at this point that George Michael, having finished up with his own customer, had felt the need to intervene. “Dad, I don’t think that’s really relevant to the-”

 

“Oh, and this is George Michael, my son,” Michael had proudly announced to the poor woman who just wanted her ice cream, and George Michael had forced an awkward smile. “We just moved down here together. We’re looking for a fresh start. Anyway, here’s your rocky road.”

 

“I ordered moose tracks,” she’d politely reminded him.

 

“Those aren’t the same thing?” Michael had asked, frowning.

 

Again George Michael had felt compelled to step in. “No, Dad, they’re not. Here, just – I’ll get it for you, ma’am. I’m so sorry.”

 

After the woman left, Michael had turned to his son. “She was cute, huh? Little dumb though. Who’s never heard of the banana stand? Anyway, what do you think, for you or for me? We should probably try to coordinate with that stuff now. Wouldn’t want a repeat of the whole _Rebel_ business.”

 

George Michael had been beyond mortified, both because his father had felt this was an appropriate time to jar that particular memory and because there were customers waiting who’d almost certainly overheard – not to mention the mere idea of bringing any woman back to the camper where he’d been sharing a bed with his father, which is enough to shame anyone into celibacy. “Dad, there are customers here,” he’d whispered.

 

Fortunately his father had taken the hint. Turning to the next person in line, and apparently still bitter about being unknown, he’d greeted them with a, “Hi, welcome to Bluth’s Frozen Bananas. What can I get for you? Oh – I’m sorry. That was a reflex. See, I used to work in a…”

 

After a week of this, Michael had been fired. He’d taken it very well, much to George Michael’s relief, although he’d spent the whole way home(to the RV park) ranting about the experience, the main source of his lament being that no one in Phoenix seems to have heard of the Bluth family.

 

“But Dad,” George Michael had interjected, “isn’t that what you wanted? A fresh start?”

 

“Yeah, of course it is,” Michael had replied. “I’m just not so sure that… that that’s what we’re getting here. How have these people never heard of – for crying out loud, we’re not _that_ far away. Maybe that’s what the problem is. Maybe we’re still too close to Newport.”

 

It was the first time Michael had expressed that sentiment, but it wouldn’t be the last. It’s come to be a recurring theme now: something will go wrong, and Michael will place the blame on the family – specifically the fact that they’re not far enough away from them. He’s been carefully skirting around actually suggesting that they leave Phoenix for somewhere else, which George Michael suspects is because they have nowhere else to go. It’s always been, “We’re going to Phoenix,” which doesn’t really work when you’re… already in Phoenix.

 

George Michael wonders if his father realizes that Phoenix was never the answer, and perhaps by extension that leaving the family was never the answer – that in the end, he really does need them just as much as they need him, and without them he’s just some guy in an RV park in Phoenix. Michael hasn’t tried to get another job, opting instead to spend his days exploring the city. There’s been some talk of starting his online classes again, finally getting that law degree, but so far nothing’s come of it.

 

Despite his father’s obvious dissatisfaction, though, George Michael is kind of enjoying himself. He’s managed to make a few friends, and his job at the ice cream parlor is a lot more fun now that Michael’s not his coworker anymore. He enjoys being able to sort of just fade into the background for a change, unlike when he was George Maharis and all eyes were on him all the time. It’s nice to be able to forget about his problems for a while.

 

Another bright side is that his relationship with his father is steadily improving, even as Michael’s relationship with Phoenix declines. They eat two meals a day together, dinner and breakfast, which they haven’t done in years. The stove in the RV works, but the oven doesn’t, so they usually order takeout for dinner. Tonight it’s pizza, which, due to some minor confusion over the phone, has been delivered to the main office instead of their specific RV. Michael volunteers to go get it, and he returns with a smile on his face.

 

“Guess who I just spoke to, son,” he says, setting down the pizza box on the table.

 

“The pizza guy?” George Michael guesses.

 

“Nope!” Michael replies. “Well, yeah, him too, but that’s not who I meant. We’ve got some new neighbors checking in, an older couple. Guess where they’re from.”

 

George Michael feels like he’s done enough guessing for one night. “I don’t – I don’t know. Tell me.”

 

“ _Florida_ ,” Michael replies, popping open the pizza box and grabbing a slice. “Isn’t that a concept? You know, some people call it the poor man’s California, but these two certainly seem to be happy there. They’re doing a cross-country road trip for their 50th anniversary, they said. Can you believe that? 50 years.”

 

“That’s a long time,” George Michael agrees, grabbing a slice of his own.

 

“It sure is.” Michael pauses to take a bite of his pizza. “You know, your Gangie and your Pop-Pop haven’t even made it to 50 yet. Now, granted, for them, assuming their divorce never goes through, it’ll be 50 years of misery, but for the couple I met tonight it’s been 50 years of bliss.”

 

“Uh-huh,” George Michael says through a mouthful of pizza. He’s not sure where his father is going with this, but he gets his answer when Michael finishes chewing.

 

“You know, we could drive to Florida,” Michael says. “We could actually take the 10, just like we did on the way here. It goes all the way to Jacksonville, I’m pretty sure.”

 

George Michael swallows his pizza. “Do you _want_ to go to Jacksonville?”

 

“Well, not necessarily,” Michael replies, pausing to take a sip of his drink. “I’m just saying, that would get us to Florida, and then we could figure it out from there. We could drive down to Miami, even check out the Keys.”

 

“Isn’t it _humid_ in Florida, though?” George Michael asks. Humidity makes everything worse, but that’s not the biggest flaw with Michael’s suggestion.

 

“Well, yeah, son, it is, but they say you get used to it.” Michael pauses to take another bite of his pizza. “And, you know, obviously we wouldn’t _actually_ drive down to Florida. I’m just saying, we _could_. There’s nothing stopping us.”

 

George Michael isn’t convinced. “Dad, I have a job.”

 

“George Michael, you scoop ice cream,” his father replies. “Anybody can do that. They’re not gonna miss you.”

 

_You couldn’t do that_ , George Michael thinks, but he refrains from saying it out loud. Beside him, his father is still talking.

 

“But yeah, you’re right. Why would we leave? We’re in _Phoenix_ , for fuck’s sake. You can’t top that.” There’s a strained expression on Michael’s face, almost like he’s being forced to say it – a man held hostage by his own unrealistic expectations. “Don’t you just _love_ Phoenix, George Michael?”

 

“Yeah, Dad, I guess I kind of do,” he admits.

 

“Well, there you go,” Michael replies. “That settles it. We’re staying.”

 

-

 

It’s a Saturday in February when it all finally falls apart.

 

It’s been months since they’ve seen the family, months since they’ve even heard from the family, although it doesn’t really feel that way when Michael can’t let an hour pass without bringing them up. He talks about Florida a lot too, and George Michael is beginning to wonder if maybe Florida is the new Phoenix. He hopes not – he kind of likes the old Phoenix. Then again, he kind of liked being around the family too, and he wonders if it’ll take going to Florida for Michael to admit that he wants to go back to Newport Beach.

 

Right now, they’re going shopping, which is something they do most days George Michael doesn’t have work. It’s less about buying things(which they rarely do due to a lack of funds) and more about having an excuse to be in a fully air-conditioned environment. Today’s excursion has led them to a mini-mall in an area they haven’t previously visited.

 

“Foot Locker,” Michael says, reading the sign of the building in front of them. “You know what, let’s pop in there really quick. I could use some new shoes.”

 

George Michael hesitates, not sure if his father is joking or not. ‘Foot Locker’ is only two thirds of the name of the store he just suggested they enter, which should be obvious even with the banner covering up the remainder of the sign. “Um, Dad, I don’t think-”

 

“You don’t think what, son?” Michael asks, already pushing open the door. There’s a decal that says ‘Lady Foot Locker’ on the glass as well, but this too goes unnoticed by Michael. “That we can afford it? Trust me, I’ve done the math. We’ve got room in the budget.”

 

“No, Dad, it’s not about money,” George Michael protests. “I just-” somehow, he can’t bring himself to say out loud what should be very clear by now.

 

Michael is already inside the building, apparently blind with determination. Feeling a strange sense of obligation, George Michael follows him.

 

“Lot of women’s shoes in here,” Michael observes, and for a moment George Michael hopes he’s figured it out on his own. But then he continues. “Men’s must be deeper in the store. Come on.”

 

“Dad-” George Michael whispers, but his feet carry him forward almost automatically – he can’t just leave his father alone in the depths of a Lady Foot Locker in Phoenix.

 

Michael makes his way to the back of the store, staring down each aisle he passes in a way that George Michael hopes isn’t making the female patrons uncomfortable. He still hasn’t realized that – much like with his ‘escape to Phoenix’ plan – he’s looking for something he’s never going to find. George Michael, meanwhile, is all too aware of that fact. So aware, in fact, that with every step he takes he feels another one of his forgotten problems push its way to the forefront of his mind.

 

“This is all women’s too,” Michael says. _You made out with your cousin_ , says a voice inside George Michael’s head.

 

“Look at this. It’s all heels,” Michael says. _You posed as a tech entrepreneur and ripped off the Chinese with a bogus software_ , says the voice inside George Michael’s head. _You lost one of your best friends in the process, and you lost the software that was supposed to get you into Julliard._

 

“What the hell kind of a Foot Locker doesn’t have _any_ men’s shoes?” Michael asks. _What are you gonna do with your life now_? asks the voice inside George Michael’s head. _You went to Mexico instead of graduating college, and you can’t go back now. You went to Phoenix to escape your problems, and look how that turned out_.

 

“Dad, it’s not a-” George Michael tries to say, but it’s too late. Michael is already flagging down an employee, and George Michael braces himself for the impending embarrassment of getting another person involved.

 

“Excuse me,” Michael asks, walking up to the guy, whose uniform George Michael can’t help but notice also says Lady Foot Locker. “Do you work here?”

 

The guy turns around. “Can I help you?”

 

“Let’s hope so,” Michael replies, which his mortified son suspects is a comment on the employee’s somewhat unkempt appearance. “Care to tell me why you only seem to carry women’s shoes?”

 

The guy scoffs, as though he’s about to start laughing, as though the whole thing is a joke(George Michael really, _really_ wishes the whole thing was a joke), but the dead serious expression on Michael’s face clues him in pretty quickly. “Dude. Read the sign.”

 

“I _have_ read the sign, ‘dude’,” Michael retorts, not amused.

 

“Then there’s your answer, bro,” the guy replies, rolling his eyes and smirking. He turns to walk away, but Michael is having none of that.

 

“Hey! Hey! You! Come back here!” Michael half-shouts. “I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”

 

“Whatever, dude,” the guy replies. “I’ll go get him for you.”

 

“Dad, I don’t – I don’t think we need a manager,” George Michael says, finally having regained his ability to speak. The ability to forget his troubles, though, is something he’s pretty sure he’ll never get back. He feels like he’s on a train that’s about to crash into another train head-on.

 

“Well why not?” Michael asks. “This guy clearly doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I mean, look at him. Obviously a pothead. I bet he’s high right now, talk about unprofessional. And did you see that little mustache he had going on? Probably thinks he’s a musician too.”

 

“Dad-” George Michael protests, but he can’t get the words out. Even if he could, he knows his father wouldn’t listen. The employee in question is headed back their way now, followed by a middle-aged bald man that George Michael assumes must be the manager.

 

“Finally,” Michael remarks, nudging his son.

 

“What seems to be the problem here?” the manager asks, hands on his hips. He doesn’t look too pleased about having his day interrupted for this. He also doesn’t look like the type to have a lot of patience, which George Michael suspects is only going to make things worse.

 

“Well, uh, ‘Dave’, I asked a question, and your employee here wouldn’t give me a straight answer,” Michael replies, reading the manager’s nametag. George Michael wonders how the hell he could manage to do that without also reading his shirt, which says Lady Foot Locker in giant letters.

 

“And what question would that be?” Dave the manager asks.

 

“Why you only sell women’s shoes,” Michael answers much too confidently.

 

“Read the sign,” Dave the manager says bluntly. “Is this some sort of joke?”

 

“Hey, hang on,” Michael objects, and again George Michael finds himself wishing this _was_ some sort of joke. “I _have_ read the sign. Why does everyone keep assuming that I haven’t?”

 

Dave the manager’s face is starting to turn red now, which can’t be good. “Dad, I think maybe you should-” George Michael starts, but Michael cuts him off.

 

“Not now, George Michael.” He’s starting to get agitated, raising his voice a little. “You know, I’m a paying customer. Or would be, anyway, if you had any men’s shoes here. Is this how you treat all your customers?”

 

“Have you spent money here today?” Dave the manager asks, folding his arms across his chest.

 

“Well, no,” Michael replies. “But I was planning to, which in my opinion-”

 

“Have you spent money here, or at any of our other locations, at any point in the past?” Dave the manager asks.

 

“Well, no,” Michael says again. “But-”

 

“Then you’re not a paying customer,” Dave the manager says matter-of-factly.

 

“Well, no, when you put it like that, I guess I’m not,” Michael replies, but he’s hardly backing down. All of his pent-up frustration with the way things have turned out seems to have chosen this unfortunate moment to boil over. “But what if I was? Let’s just say I was, and you still chose to treat me like this. Doesn’t reflect too well on you, now does it?”

 

“But you’re not,” Dave the manager argues.

 

“And at this point, I most certainly won’t be,” Michael retorts.

 

“Then I suggest you go ahead and leave now before you and I have a problem,” Dave the manager says, his face getting redder.

 

“Is that a threat?” Michael asks. “Are you threatening me?”

 

“I’m politely asking you to leave my store,” Dave the manager replies, glaring.

 

“ _Politely_?” Michael asks. “Well, if this is what you call polite, I’d hate to see you when you’re angry.”

 

“Dad, come on, let’s just go,” George Michael interjects. People are staring now, and he’s pretty sure he sees someone recording out of the corner of his eye.

 

“No, George Michael, I’m making a point here,” his father insists.

 

“And what is your point, wise guy?” Dave the manager chimes in. “That you don’t know how to read?”

 

“That I don’t – I beg your pardon?” Michael asks. “Who do you think I am, Ron Howard? You know, that’s actually just a common misconception. Ron _can_ read. Reed is his son’s name, in fact, so I get the sense he’s actually quite fond of it.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dave the manager asks. His whole head is now the color of a cherry tomato. “What’s Ron Howard got to do with anything?”

 

Michael ignores the question, along with any urge he might have had to deescalate the situation. “I bet you didn’t even know that, did you? I bet you don’t even know who Ron Howard is.”

 

“Everybody knows who Ron Howard is,” Dave the manager counters.

 

“Well, I’m sure you know _of_ him, but do you really _know_ him?” Michael asks. “Because I know him personally. I’ve met him several times. I’ve been to his house. I used to date his daughter.”

 

“Dad-” George Michael tries to protest again. This is hardly the time to be boasting about knowing Ron Howard, which is a weird thing to be boasting about even if you’re not in the middle of arguing with the manager of a Lady Foot Locker.

 

“Oh, so you’re from California, are you?” Dave the manager asks. “That explains your attitude. Entitled, stuck-up, know-it-all-”

 

“ _My_ attitude?” Michael asks, sounding mildly appalled. “I’m not so sure I’m the one with an attitude here, ‘Dave’. And you know what? Phoenix isn’t so great either. My mother once said she’d rather be dead in California than alive in Arizona, and I’m beginning to think she was onto something there. The heat is unbearable, the RV parks are _disgusting_ , and I’d have to drive down to Mexico just to see the ocean. Why would anyone willingly live here?”

 

“Then go back to California!” Dave the manager yells, throwing his hands in the air. “Or go to hell for all I care! Go be dead or alive or whatever, just go do it somewhere else! Get out of my store!”

 

“Hey! _Hey_! Don’t you tell me to go to hell,” Michael replies, clearly offended. “Do you even know who I am? I used to be a movie producer. I founded my own company! And you – you’re the manager of a Foot Locker. Don’t tell me to – you know what, _y_ _ou_ go to hell.”

 

“I don’t care who you are!” Dave the manager shouts. “I want you out of my store!”

 

“And I want a new pair of shoes,” Michael replies almost solemnly. “But apparently that’s too much to ask for in Phoenix, the city where dreams come to die. That should be your new slogan.”

 

Dave the manager looks like his head might explode. “ _You_ want new shoes?” he yells. “From _Lady_ Foot Locker?”

 

“No, of course not from Lady Foot Locker,” Michael scoffs. “I would’ve gone to Lady Foot Locker if I wanted them from Lady Foot Locker. Why do you think I’m here at-” he pauses, his brow furrowed, and glances around the store. His eyes suddenly get a little wider, and George Michael realizes he’s finally seen the literal writing on the wall. And on the posters, and on the signs, and on Dave the manager’s uniform. “…Lady Foot Locker,” he finishes quietly to himself.

 

“George Michael!” he shouts almost frantically. “Why didn’t you say something?”

 

“I tried to, Dad,” George Michael meekly replies. Michael opens his mouth again, but no words come out – for once, he’s completely at a loss.

 

“Get out!” Dave the manager yells again, pointing at the exit. “Right now, or I call the cops!”

 

In fact, the cops have already arrived – or at least a security guard who works at the mini-mall. He reaches for the handcuffs he has on his belt, and Michael, taking the hint, heads for the door. George Michael hastily follows him, mumbling apologies to anyone who will listen.

 

“You’re banned from my store for life!” Dave the manager is still yelling behind them. “I’m taking this to corporate! You’re about to be banned for life from every Lady Foot Locker in America!”

 

His voice follows them all the way back to the RV, as does the security guard, who apparently has nothing better to do. George Michael is too embarrassed to say anything, so instead he stares at the sky, then at the ground, then finally at Michael, who’s staring at the Lady Foot Locker sign in disbelief. Neither father nor son expected things to end this way, but something just ended for sure. They can’t just go back to the RV park now and pretended this never happened.

 

“That’s it,” Michael says, turning to face his son. “We’re going to Florida.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and with that we're right back to where the first fic in this series started. ta-da.
> 
> fun fact, i originally wasn't going to give mr manager a name, because for some reason i like to leave all minor characters nameless, but then i decided it would be funnier if michael read his nametag and not his shirt, so now his name's dave. also i've been wanting to write that scene ever since i wrote michael's eulogy in the first fic & i cannot believe it took me this long to finally get around to doing it.
> 
> another fun fact, i'm a huge fan of the original AD season 4, which i think is why i focused each chapter of this on one(or two) character(s) and jumped around so much with the timeline, i.e. unintentionally modeled this fic after it. i legitimately did not even make that connection until like last month bc i'm an idiot but i think it's probably worth mentioning.
> 
> one more fun fact! i know i said somewhere i was putting the next fic in this series on hold until i finished this one. well obviously that doesn't apply anymore since i'm finished with this one now but i have actually been working on it some & i may or may not wait until the entire thing is finished to update it again. i have the chapter with the proposal almost ready & i'm tempted to go ahead and put that one back up when i finish it since i had it up before for like two weeks anyway. i've fixed most of the parts that were bugging me so like... potentially be on the lookout for that at some point in the next few weeks.
> 
> ok i think that's it. thanks for reading, if anyone actually read all of this!


End file.
